


The Taming of the Sellsword

by yellowballs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 41,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowballs/pseuds/yellowballs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The setting is post-Blackwater, pre-Purple Wedding.  Bronn has not been knighted after the battle, and is growing a little bored, sitting around drinking wine with the Master of Coin.  He hears of a possible chance at easy money, in the employ of a nearby estate.  He rides out to find out more, and discovers something unexpected.</p><p>The world is GRRM's, the familiar characters are GRRM's, the fun is mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

 

The day is as grey as the crumbling masonry of the gatehouse, as stark as the dead vegetation that once flanked the entry.  The place seems all but abandoned.  Bronn  casts a baleful glance at the tattered banner hanging over the unguarded portal -- three howling wolves, on a checkered field of grey and white.  House Greystark, once a middling power in White Harbor, today reduced to pauper status after siding against Winterfell decades ago in some Northern skirmish.  He wonders if the last remaining Lord Greystark has the purse for his services.  
  
Halfway across the windblown courtyard, Bronn is accosted by a stooped, balding man in faded groomsman's livery.  "Milord, who may I announce is calling?" he asks hopefully, scurrying to catch up to the lively warhorse and its rider.  
  
"I'm no lord," growls the sellsword.  "I've come from King's Landing.  I hear the old man's got need of a hired sword."  He reins to a halt beside a goldfish pond whose occupants have seen better days.  "Name's Bronn."  
  
"I'm Hobart," the stableman supplies with an uncertain grin.  "Lord Greystark will ask for references."  
  
With a creak of leather, Bronn swings out of the saddle, handing over his mount's tether.  "Tell him I used to work for Tyrion Lannister.  And I have the Lion's goldpiece to prove it."  
  
The grin quickly leaves Hobart's face, to be replaced by a flickering of fear.  He nods, hurrying off in the direction of the modest estate house.  
  
With a wry snort, Bronn removes his riding gloves, slapping out the creases against one black-clad thigh.  Pale dead eyes stare up at him from the water.  "I hope you lot aren't the only gold to be had in this sorry place," he tells them ruefully,  before striding slowly through the neglected grounds.   
  
  
  
***************************  
  
  
  
"This family needs protection, " Lord Greystark intones from the massive tapestry chair upon which he rests his well-fed frame.  His lady wife, Myllicent, as skinny as he is obese, stands beside the flowered armrest.  "Most particularly, our daughter needs protection."  
  
Bronn says nothing for the moment, studying his wineglass.  He'd heard old lady Greystark had ties to the Arbor.  If the winecellar is still stocked, that would be one thing in favor of taking the job.  
  
"Your daughter," he repeats finally, sipping the red liquid with an approving glance at his goblet.  He pauses, considering.  It has likely been many decades since this old fat man found his mast, let alone raised it.  And his Arbor bride is well past child bearing age.  _So an adult daughter, still living with her parents.  Probably an ugly old maid._  
  
"Is she a maid?"  he asks bluntly.  The aging lord looks a bit offended, much to Bronn's amusement.  "Else, why doesn't her husband speak for her -- or protect her?"  he continues pointedly, throwing back more wine.  
  
"Her husband died a year ago."  
  
_Even better,_ thinks Bronn sarcastically, _a dried up widow._   Still, it was a weekly purse, until something better comes along.  
  
"Why does she need protection?" he presses, boldness in his voice, arrogance in the way he helps himself to another glassful.  
  
Lord Greystark raises a pudgy hand from his belly and waves it in dismissal.  " 'Why' is none of your business," he declares haughtily.  "I'll pay you well, the last of my family's wealth, to keep her safe.  That's all you need to know."  
  
"Wrong."  Impatience and annoyance spark from Bronn's eyes.  "You can keep your secrets to yourself, but if I'm going to protect her, I need to know from whom."  
  
The last Lord and Lady Greystark exchange a fraught look.  "Roose Bolton."  
  
A low whistle escapes Bronn's lips.  "House Bolton is a dangerous enemy to have."  
  
"Will you accept the job?"  
  
Into the ensuing silence intrudes the sound of a door opening and closing in the rear of the house.  Before Bronn can answer the question, a figure enters the room behind him.   
  
The old man smiles.  "Lenah, come meet your prospective bodyguard."  
  
Bronn turns on his heel, and slowly a gleam comes to his hard blue eyes.  Far from a withered old hag, he finds a diminutive, curvaceous woman dressed in men's breeches, shaking out her raven-coloured tresses from the leather thong that bound them from the wind.  
  
"Good ride, dear?" her mother asks solicitously.   
  
Knocking the trail dust from her boots, Lenah replies off-handedly, "Not far enough.  Tomorrow I will go further."  
  
Her father makes the introduction.  "Lenah, this is Bronn, lately of King's Landing and the employ of Tyrion Lannister.  Bronn, Lady Lenah of House Greystark."  
  
For the first time, Lenah does more than glance at their guest.  She had known her father planned to hire someone to babysit her.  Although she thinks the threat is greatly overblown, she has resigned herself to having some tired old hedge knight past his prime and in need of gold, making a nuisance of himself.  Instead, she looks into the insouciant eyes of a wiry, hard-bodied fighter, a weathered face with beard, lined and handsome -- a mask for the daring and dangerous man within.   
  
"Milady."  The sellsword drawls the word casually, almost mockingly, holding her gaze with cocksure ease.  
  
Lenah smiles in sly amusement. "Just Bronn, is it?  No 'ser'?"  
  
"My sword needs no title to be good at what it does."  
  
A beat goes by, as Lenah's glance flickers downward momentarily.  "No. I'm sure it doesn't," she murmurs succinctly.   
  
Eyes flashing, Bronn tosses his answer over his shoulder without turning his head.  "Aye, I'll take the job."  
  
"Very good."  Lord Greystark nods, more relieved than he will admit.  
  
"And my first order of business will be to put an end to solo horseback rides," the sellsword continues authoritatively.  "Do you ride outside the compound walls?"  
  
Lenah snorts delicately at the interrogation.  "Of course."  
  
"That will stop."  
  
"No, it won't," Lenah retorts with matter-of-fact defiance.  
  
Anger darkens Bronn's face.  _This one is feisty, too._  
  
"If you don't want me to ride alone, you better be saddled up by daylight tomorrow," -- Lenah pauses to smile sweetly -- "Bronn."  With that, she turns and saunters out, affording him the disquieting view of her shapely backside outlined in leather.  
  
_Gods be good, what had he gotten himself into?_  
  
  
  
 


	2. Chapter Two

He awakens quickly in the hour before sunrise, a legacy of too many pre-dawn battles.  His senses instantly alert, Bronn lies quietly, feeling the air around him.  When he is sure nothing is amiss, he runs a war-scarred hand back through his dark mane of hair, and rises to relieve himself beside the gatehouse.  He has chosen to make his bed here, rather than on the cot offered him in the stable with Hobart.  Although it is true, the fallen walls could be breached by a cripple with a stepstool, he will at least station himself at the portal.   
  
Back inside the small square hut, Bronn finds a hunk of dried up cheese in his saddlebag to break his fast.  Chewing slowly, he reflects on his new circumstances.  He's a far cry from the luxury of King's Landing, that is certain.  But he'd been getting bored and soft, sitting around drinking the Imp's wine all day.  And he was damn tired of Tyrion's cunt sister trying to order him around like one of her lackeys.  A change of scenery was just what he needed.  _And despite the rougher accommodations, the scenery here wasn't half bad._  
  
Bronn's lips curve upwards in anticipation of his day.   
  
  
  
****************************     
  
  
  
As the first shaft of sunlight breaks free of the horizon, a dark form leading a horse swaggers out of the gloom, to stop before the door of Lenah's cottage.  
  
"Good morrow, Just Bronn," she greets him teasingly, cinching the belly strap of her saddle. "'Sleep well?"  
  
"Like a eunuch in a whorehouse," he agrees cheerfully, refusing to be rankled by her mocking tone.  Had he really forgotten overnight how annoying she could be? _She's easy enough on the eyes, but that mouth needs something better to do._   He can't help but entertain one or two interesting ideas on that score.  
  
Stepping closer to rider and mount, Bronn runs a fingerless-gloved hand across the mare's dappled rump.  The gesture is not lost on Lenah, he notes with satisfaction.   
  
"Here's the rules, " the sellsword announces forcefully, brash confidence to the fore.  "I'll be Just Bronn, you'll be Just Lenah."  His bemused charge looks up at him expectantly.  "I don't hold with all this 'milord-milady' shit."  His blazing eyes dare her to disagree.  
  
There is something so masterful about his delivery, an intrigued Lenah decides to yield him this point.  "You can call me whatever you wish, Bronn," she purrs after a moment, amusement curling her lips.  "That doesn't mean I'll come when called."  
  
Bronn's voice drops lower.  "Oh, I reckon you'll come when I want you to," he promises roguishly, giving the mare another pat.  
  
Lenah's eyebrows twitch upwards in appreciation of his boldness, but she shakes her head in warning.  "Don't be so sure of yourself," she cautions with seeming disinterest.  "Ready?"  Bronn mounts up quickly, fueled by a flash of exasperation.   
  
They ride out from Lenah's private quarters, past the stable and the main house, through the archway in the wall.  The air is crisp, with a foreshadowing of autumn.  The pass through once-lush orchards and a struggling vineyard.  They follow a stream to where it meanders out from a treeline.  They see a fox flush a covey of quail at the edge of the forest.  The thin whistle of their wings is the only sound that hour.  
  
To Lenah, who travels these trails alone on a daily basis, the silence is companionable.  Bronn, however, finds it increasingly tedious.  Eventually, he breaks into song to pass the time -- a bawdy whorehouse favorite.   
  


Do her tits hang low?  
Do they wobble to and fro?  
Can she tie 'em in a knot?  
Can she tie 'em in a bow?  
Can she toss 'em o'er her shoulder like a King's Guard soldier?  
Do her tits.......ha-a-a-a-a-ang.......loooooooow?!

He finishes at the top of his lungs in a fine tenor, with an expansive flourish, then glances sideways at his companion to see her reaction.

Face dancing in ill-concealed mirth, Lenah remarks, "I've heard that one before......about a man's balls."  A beat goes by, as the picture takes hold in their minds.  Then they both break out into hearty laughter. 

_Feisty.....Annoying.....Exasperating.......Bawdy_.  Bronn ticks them off to himself.  Not like any highborn lady he'd ever come across.

  
 


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE  
  
"So -- where does a highborn lady like yourself learn a song like that?" Bronn wonders conversationally, as he tears off another hunk of bread to go with the turkey leg he's been devouring.  The two lounge opposite one another on a frayed saddle blanket, sharing a midday meal and a wineskin.  
  
"I know many things that might surprise you," suggests Lenah archly, popping a grape into her mouth with a smile.  
  
With one eyebrow cocked, the sellsword tosses the bare bone into the underbrush.  After wiping his hands on a corner of the flannel ground cover, he stretches his legs out in front of him, reclining on an elbow.  Sated, he releases a belch, followed by an exaggerated yawn.  "I doubt it," he says, just to needle her.    
  
"We'll see," murmurs Lenah mysteriously, taking a sip of wine and rolling onto her side.  
  
Determined not to be baited, Bronn squints into the distance and changes the subject.  "Whose land _**is**_ this?" he asks.  "I thought the Greystark holdings were up around White Harbor."  
  
Lenah's gaze follows his, as she takes a moment to collect her thoughts.  "They were," she admits finally.  "House Greystark was a cadet house of Winterfell, in the days when my Ur-grandfather chose to side with the Dreadfort and rise against the Starks."  
  
"Wrong move, I take it," guesses Bronn a bit flippantly, as he admires the accentuated curve of her hips while Lenah looks elsewhere.  
  
Lenah nods, turning back to him.  "For that folly, he was stripped of all lands and forced to pay a crippling tribute to the Lord of Winterfell."  She pauses.  "My great-grandfather's ladywife was a Rosby -- this is all part of her dowry.  The family has lived here ever since."  
  
Knitting his brow in curiosity, Bronn queries, "Is that ancient skirmish the reason for your families' feud today?  I know Lord Leech is said to never forget a grudge, but that seems too long ago, even for him."  
  
Lenah tips back more wine, then passes the bladder to Bronn.  "Lord Bolton's grudge with me is much more recent -- and more personal," she confesses with scant emotion.  Bronn is listening closely now, sensing a bit of gossip.  "When I was fifteen, I was married to Roose Bolton's elder brother, Romeric.  Though Lord of the Dreadfort, he was an old man and a drunkard even then."  
  
Bronn shakes his head.  These sigil houses, always marrying their young girls off to old men.  _Nice for the old men, but probably a chore for the lasses._  
  
Lenah continues, "In all the years of our marriage, I never produced an heir.  When my 'lord husband' died of his drinking, Roose sent me back to my father, publicly declaring me barren and of no further use to House Bolton.  Or any other family."  
  
 _Sealing her fate as a life long widow,_ Bronn realizes.  "Cruel deeds from a cruel man," he comments, after wetting his throat.  "Why not leave it at that?"  
  
  
Sparks fly from Lenah's eyes, her defiance for once not directed at him.  "Because I made the truth known," she retorts, voice dripping with sarcastic fervor.  "Lord Bolton's revered brother, a man thrice my age, was wed to the bottle long before he married me.  In twenty years, he never brought anything hard to the bedchamber."  
  
Bronn nods sagely.  He hasn't always followed the intrigues in the games of the highborn,  but this is something he understands.  
  
"Drink can do that to a man," he agrees, glancing up a moment later with comic awareness of the wineskin just leaving his lips.  "Not me, of course," he adds brusquely, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.  
  
Glad to lighten the mood, Lenah eyes him merrily.  "Really?  It doesn't detract from your performance at all?"  
  
The sellsword gives her a sly wink.  "Enhances it, really," he promises, taking another swig.    
  
Lenah steals a minute to study her protector.  A dangerous man, a selfish man, a man of no loyalties.  And yet.......when the corners of his down-turned eyes crinkle in humour, she sees not a man to be feared, but one to be understood.  
  
"Tell me about Bronn," she invites languidly.    
  
The sellsword shrugs.  "Nothing to tell, really."  When he sees Lenah is waiting for his answer, he expands grudgingly.  "My mother was a whore.  My father was anyone's guess."  
  
"Do you ever see her -- visit her?"  
  
His answer is quick.  "Nope.  Don't want to."  
  
"Why?"  
  
A cloud passes briefly over the rugged face.  "She used to let her favorite customer slap me around when he was in his cups."  The little boy inside the man juts out his chin pugnaciously.  "Until I was twelve."  
  
Lenah's mouth twists in concern.  "What happened when you were twelve?"  
  
"I smashed both his knees with a cudgel," he replies triumphantly.  "That's the day I left."  
  
Lenah lets a moment pass before asking, "Where did you go then?"  
  
Bronn brushes aside the rest of his life in curt, casual sentences.  "Hired onto the docks in Gulltown.  Learned sword fighting from an old Lyseni pirate.  Went on the road for gold.  Killed my first man by the end of that year."  
  
Rolling onto her back, Lenah uses a forearm to shield her eyes from the midday sun.  The two picnic companions drift alone with their thoughts, until Lenah, her mind still on the Gulltown wharves, asks, "Have you ever been across the Narrow Sea?"  
  
"No.  You?"  Bronn glances over just in time to see her headshake.  "I'd like to, though," he continues fervently.  "Like to spend some time at one of those fancy whorehouses on Slaver's Bay."  
  
A secret smile tickles Lenah's lips as she sits up.  "Do you think about fucking constantly?"  
  
"Oh ho!" Bronn reacts in surprise.  "Didn't know a highborn lady used language like that!"  
  
Lenah snorts.  "Well, I wouldn't call what goes on in a whorehouse 'lovemaking'."  
  
"Gets the job done," Bronn  throws back with a shrug and a smirk.  
  
"In what -- seven minutes........or less?"  she taunts.  He grunts.  _I'll show you seven minutes.  
  
_ "There's more to the act than just 'getting the job done'," she suggest provocatively.    
  
Bronn eyes her with amusement.  "Now what would a lady of House Greystark know about pillow games?" he scoffs.  
  
Lenah's sly smile returns.  "When _this_ lady lived in the keep of House Bolton, she had a Yunkish handmaiden.  Dear Shandra had come such a long way from the brothels where she first worked.  Yet she never forgot the things she learned there."  She notes with satisfaction, the look on her listener's face.  "Fortunately, there were younger, more virile men than my husband within the fort to amuse us."  
  
More than one part of Bronn sits up straighter at this revelation.  The Houses of Seven Sighs in Yunkai were renowned on both sides of the Narrow Sea for their secret pleasures.  With his imagination taking grand liberties, Bronn is soon beyond uncomfortable.  Yet he makes no effort to disguise the fact, instead drawing attention to it by adjusting the angle against  his laces, all the while staring at her boldly.    
  
Lenah chooses this moment to unbutton her blouse partway, revealing the curve of her generous cleavage.  "The sun is growing warmer, don't you think?" she asks casually, clearly enjoying his predicament.  Taking the waterskin, she tips a bit into her cupped hand and splashes her neck.  The water runs down in rivulets, to disappear between her breasts.  Smiling sweetly, she offers the skin to him.  
  
 _I'll just be dumping that whole flask on my cock now_ , thinks Bronn ruefully.  Instead, he waves it off and reaches for more wine.  Closing his eyes, he lies back, forcing his body to relax.  He soon hears Lenah rise and assumes she is off on a personal errand in the bushes.  Not until the sound of galloping hooves reaches his ears, does he realize she has mounted up and ridden off across the field.  
  
Jaw set, Bronn scrambles to his feet, vaults onto his horse, and chases after her.  Leaning low against the equine's neck, he urges his faster courser to close the gap.  Eventually he pulls ahead, then swings his mount to cut her off, grabbing the reins from her hands.    
  
Cheeks flushed, dark hair flying, Lenah laughs gayly.  "Calm yourself, Bronn!  I just needed some fresh air!"  
  
 _I know exactly what you need_ , fumes Bronn inwardly.  _And I've no doubt I'd be sent packing if I suggested it aloud._  
  
Slowly, he nudges his horse forward, so that he faces her.  A sudden hand shoots out, fingers curl behind her neck, pulling her closer to his piercing blue eyes, implacable with anger.    
  
"If you do that again, I won't be responsible for what happens to you," he growls.  The enigmatic threat hangs in the electrified space between them.  Bronn holds her gaze a moment longer, then releases her from his touch.  Turning his mount, he leads the way back to their picnic blanket,  leaving Lenah breathing heavily, not only from her galloping dash.    
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

  
"No, Lenah!"  thunders Bronn.  His dinner knife thuds into the wooden tabletop, reverberating along its blade with the stabbing force.  The two elder Greystarks exchanged startled stares, as much disconcerted by his familiarity, as they are by his pointed punctuation.    
  
Both the sellsword and the favored retainer Hobart have been taking their evening meals in the formal dining room.  The groomsman has long been welcome at the family table, and any further class distinctions are set aside in Lord Greystark's eagerness for news of the war and of the doings in Kings Landing.  Despite Bronn's lingering annoyance, the conversation has been pleasant enough -- until Lenah's announcement of her plans to visit Market Day in Rosby on the morrow.  
  
"It's too dangerous," he declares, his face hard.  "I can't protect you in a crowd."  
  
Lenah pats his arm solicitously.  "Now Bronn," she reasons sweetly.  "By your own admission, Roose Bolton is busy in the Riverlands.  I'm sure he's forgotten all about me and the insult to his dead brother's memory."  A muscle twitches along her protector's jawline.  
  
Lord Greystark shakes his white-haired head.  "The Boltons' memory for revenge is long.  I wish you would take this more seriously, Daughter," he suggests, striving to be stern.  
  
His willful offspring pushes her chair away from the table and tosses her napkin atop her plate.  "I will NOT be shut away like one of the Silent Sisters for the rest of my life," she says with icy determination.  "Besides, isn't this precisely why I have Bronn?"  
  
The sellsword looks from one to the other, half-bemused, half-insulted, to be discussed as though he were not there.  "I'm not your toady.......I'm not your toy....." he intones evenly, "....and I don't have eyes in the back of my head."  
  
Batting her lashes in evil innocence, Lenah turns to him.  "Then I suggest you grow a pair before morning," she advises the now-seething Bronn.  "Hobart, I'll need the wagon by midday."  
  
  
**********************  
  
  
The canvas is a little soiled, the side planks could use a coat of paint, but House Greystark's covered market wagon is serviceable enough.  Hobart drives the team of large-boned dreys carefully along the rutted road.  Lenah has the cushioned seat inside the awning, while Bronn rides ahorse out front.  They encounter other market-goers enroute -- farmer's wayns piled high with produce, tinker's caravans jingling with trinkets, lowborn housewives and the cooks of the highborn seeking stores for the winter ahead.  Bronn scans the faces warily, seeing a Bolton behind every buckboard.  
  
The outing is not as frivolous as he first believed, though that hardly makes his job any easier.  It has been many years since the pauper house has been able to afford kitchen servants.  In the stead, the two Greystark women share the cooking duties, with Lenah doing the marketing.  On this day, they will return laden with autumn's bounty.  
  
The square is already teeming when they arrive.  After some spirited discourse and deft jockeying for position, Hobart successfully draws their wagon up beside the clocktower.  He remains behind to tend the horses and direct the loading of goods, while Lenah strides off purposefully into the lively crowd.  Bronn hovers protectively nearby and a few steps behind, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword.  He soon sees that Lady Lenah is well-known among the farmers and merchants of Rosby.  They quickly succumb to her flirtatious bartering, sending back to the wagon a harvest cornucopia that makes his mouth water -- bushels of apples and pears, baskets of turnips, boxes of acorn-shaped green squash, sacks of dried beans, barrels of smoked pork wrapped in heavy paper, tins of olives and the first cold-pressings of their oils.   
  
Bronn cannot help but smile at Lenah's child-like delight in her surroundings.  Eyes glowing with discovery, she wanders from stall to stall -- fruits, vegetables, spices, breads, textiles, toys -- she stops at all of them.  A tiered display of rare seedless cucumbers catches her fancy.  Suddenly, she snatches one up, wielding it defensively in his direction.  "On your guard, Sellsword!" she challenges playfully.  Bronn rolls his eyes like an indulgent father, yet afterwards, he spends an unseemly amount of time contemplating the way she gripped the large, elongated vegetable.    
  
Lady Lenah's only personal indulgence is a long silken scarf.  "Look, Bronn!  All the way from Myr!" she marvels, throwing one across her shoulders.  Its red folds kiss the ground, until she wraps the fringed ends twice around her neck.  "Do I remind you of one of your whores now?" she teases, caressing the fabric as it drapes off each breast.  
  
The fire from his blue eyes is unmistakeable, as the lusty sellsword casts a lingering eye over her body, from head to toe.  "Too many clothes," he decides aloud.  _A situation I can quickly remedy_ , he finishes in thought.  Lenah only smiles, as though she can read his mind.  
  
By now they have reached the far end of the labyrinth of sellers, and the prospect of fighting their way back through the throng is daunting.  "Come," Lenah says, impulsively taking Bronn's arm.  "I know a shortcut," she promises, as she leads him into an alley.  And just that abruptly, the bustle and noise of the marketplace is only a memory, muffled by the warren of intersecting passageways between the buildings.  Part of Bronn knows he should keep both hands free for defense, but another part of him quite enjoys the press of Lenah's breast  against the crook of his elbow.  Still, his gaze darts from doorway to doorway, and he only half listens to his companion's animated chatter.  
  
Suddenly, the corner of his eye catches movement behind them.  He has a split second to register a cloaked figure following them into the alley, a hood thrown back, pale skin, flat brown eyes, dark hair and beard.  
  
And a throwing arm.    
  
Summoning brute force, he presses Lenah against the nearest wall with his body, as the knife slices empty air behind his shoulder blades.    
  



	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE  
  
  
The space is still, except for the imagined echo of the blade's thunk into the doorframe ahead, and Lenah's startled gasp.  Her wide eyes are on the assassin's weapon, Bronn's are on the discarded cloak on the ground and the thronging crowd that has swallowed their assailant.  Then each turn their eyes to the other.  
  
The sellsword makes no move to release her.  He can feel Lenah's bosom heaving against his ribcage.  He can see the fear in the green depths behind her lashes, the sudden vulnerability.  And something else as well, something he has longed to see.  
  
His lips trap hers in a rough and forceful kiss, one which she returns with equal passion.  Long moments pass, as they taste each other hungrily -- he redolent of sour wine and tobacco, she reminiscent of peppermint tea and cinnamon toast.  Once they break apart to search the face before them in wonder, then they come together again in even greater fervor.  Their bodies meld in a wanton dance of their own.  His knee parts her thighs, her hips grind against his swollen groin.  Little sounds of pleasure intermingle with the raw succulent rhythm of their kisses.  Finally, bruised and breathless, their mouths wander to nuzzle each other's necks.  
  
"Best get you home," Bronn growls regretfully against Lenah's ear.  _Where I would give my sword arm to finish this._  
  
"Where I can thank you properly," she whispers back.  If it were possible for his body to stiffen any more at that moment, it would have.  Bronn can only respond with another crushing meeting of the lips.  
  
The return through the side passages and back gardens of the village takes more time than it might have, prolonged by frequent pauses for stolen kisses.  When the couple finally emerges into the square, they are not far from the wagon, where a bored-looking Hobart is playing at the construction of a house of cards.  With a warning look, Lenah removes the sellsword's hand from the small of her back.  "Hobart!" she calls out.  "We're ready to leave!"  
  
Knaves and queens,  knights and kings, go flying in all directions.  "Of course, milady."  The startled groom scurries up onto the driver's seat, and proceeds to fiddle with the lines.  
  
"I think I should ride inside," suggests Bronn hopefully, slipping an arm around one slender waist.  
  
Lenah shakes her head, once again twisting away from him.  "There are appearances to keep up," she insists under her breath, tilting her chin in the direction of the groomsman.    
  
A tug of desperate consternation touches the corners of Bronn's eyes.  _You weren't worried about appearances when you were writhing against my cock in the alley,_ he complains inwardly.  Out loud he protests, "It will be a mighty uncomfortable ride on horseback, Lenah."  
  
He looks so virile and helpless at the same time, Lenah is tempted.  But she shakes her head once more, curling her mouth in sly amusement.  "Good for your self control," she declares, stepping onto the riser of the wagon and disappearing inside.  
  
Bronn feels  a flash of now-familiar emotion, which only heightens his arousal.  "Still bound to be as exasperating as ever, I see!" he mutters, yanking his horse's reins angrily from a rear strut.  
  
  


**************************

 

  
_This is a first_ , Bronn admits to himself, shifting in the saddle to spare his still-swollen jewels.  He'd never had a high born wench before.  _Bedding a landed lady could have interesting consequences_ , he muses.  _Beyond the obvious._ A predatory grin creeps across his face, as he tries to imagine Lenah's bedroom appetites, something he has oft considered.  _Will she have expectations beyond those of a lowly tavern girl?_   Not to worry.  He hadn't been dubbed Ser Bronn the Everlasting around the brothels of Kings Landing for the endurance of his sword on the battlefield.  The Lady will be well served this night.

Bronn spurs his horse into a trot, hoping the wagon will speed up to follow.  

 

  
_**************************_

 

The sudden lurch forward brings a smile to Lenah's lips.  _In a hurry, are we, Just Bronn?_ , she thinks.  She cannot fault him; she feels the same.  The sensual surprise of his body against hers, the earthy taste and smell of him in her senses, the rapid rise of her desire at his touch -- her pulse pounds anew at the memory.  She expects him to be a lusty lover, a bit rough, perhaps a bit selfish.  This suits Lenah -- she has never needed nor wanted a tentative man, being quick to arousal herself.  She realizes that most of Bronn's recent experience is likely to have been with whores.  Shandra's lessons may well prove useful.

One thing is certain.  It will be no feigned whore's passion that the sellsword elicits this night.

 

*****************************

 

"A hired knife in the marketplace!"  Lady Greystark's bony hand flutters to her mouth.  "Your father will be beyond distraught!"

Lenah lifts the lid on the bread bin and helps herself.  "Bronn was there to thwart the attack.  He was very........vigilant."  She finds a large chunk of cheese in the cold larder and adds it to her plate. 

Her mother frets, not without warrant.  "The threat is real, Lenah.  You must keep the sellsword close at all times."

Not even bothering to hide her smile, Lenah agrees.  "Oh I will, Mother.  Very, very close."  Some cold sliced beef takes its place among the other courses.

"Are you certain you won't eat your dinner with us?"  Lady Greystark fusses uncertainly.  "You seem very hungry....."  She eyes the well-filled platter her normally non-gluttonous daughter has made.  It looks to be a meal for two.

"Oh no, I am really quite tired," Lenah insists, slinging a wineskin over her shoulder.

"And Bronn?  Will he join us?"

Lenah pauses for a moment, then invents an answer.  "He gorged himself at the food hawkers' stands.  I think he's going to bed early."  _Not entirely a lie_ , she reflects.  She looks around the kitchen with purpose.  "Say, where are those olives we brought home?"


	6. Chapter Six

The late afternoon breeze cools his face, as Bronn strolls jauntily along the breadth of the stable towards Lenah's cottage.  The untucked hem of his loose, long-sleeved shirt ruffles in the flow of air.  He is freshly washed and casually dressed, swordless, but not without weapons.  Two knives are at the ready on his person -- a better blade in close quarters.  A sword can make a man clumsy inside four walls.  He has not forgotten his job.  
  
Coming to the corner of the barn, he spies her just as she reaches her door.  Swiftly, on silent feet, he swoops in behind, deftly lifting the plate from her hands, swinging around in front of her through the portal, to the sound of Lenah's surprised laugh.  He conveniently finds a sideboard on the wall directly inside, where he deposits the food, before pulling her over the threshold.  Closing the door, he backs her up against it and asks in a low voice, "Now where were we......"    
  
His answer is one hand on the nape of his neck, pulling his mouth to hers, the other hand snaking under his shirt and up the bare skin of his back.  In between kisses, Bronn braces her spine with his forearm, leaning her out to pluck at the stays of her bodice.  Reaching inside, he frees first one heavy, round breast, then the other.  _Gods be good!,_   he thinks in lascivious delight.  _She has the nipples of a Myrish whore_.  Impossibly large, dark brown and taut -- they beckon him.  He fills his mouth greedily, with equal attention to each side, while Lenah lies back in his arms moaning softly in pleasure.  When she can take no more, she places two gentle palms on his chest, pushing him away.  "Make yourself comfortable, Sellsword," she invites in a throaty voice.  "You're going to be here awhile."    
  
Never taking his avid eyes from her, Bronn quickly moves to one side of the bed, yanking his shirt over his head as he goes.  From the waistband at the small of his back, he pulls a curved knife in its scabbard.  This he secretes between the mattresses, as Lenah smiles in amusement.  When he pulls another blade from his boot and places it on the bedside chest, she laughs aloud.  Shrugging, he shares a bit of her merriment, though his appreciation stems more from what he sees.  For some reason, the sight of Lenah half-undressed, perked and wanton and ready for him, is more erotic than a room full of naked women.  Balancing against the bedframe,  Bronn hurriedly removes his footwear, as Lenah steps to the footpost, there to hang the wineskin.  As an adornment, it is upstaged by the day's silken scarf, draped artfully across the headboard.  Catching the sellsword's eye as she drops the bag of Arbor Gold, she suggests archly, "For enhancement."  Then she releases the remaining hooks of her gown and slips it to the floor.  
  
Bronn is somehow not surprised to find she wears no smallclothes.  He catches his breath, before impatiently unlacing his breeches, sending those to the floorboards as well.  "Does it look like I need enhancement?" he challenges, ever the bold rogue.  
  
Lenah eyes his endowments with admiration and undisguised desire.  "No, I would say you told it true," she says, delighted in her own right.  "Your sword needs no title to be impressive."  
  
Mounting the mattress, Bronn reaches for her, pulling her ruthlessly by the hips to land beneath him.  Skin against skin, rough against smooth, hard against soft -- their flesh meets for the first time.  His tongue explores her mouth insistently, his teeth playfully nip her neck, his lips return to her breasts with purpose.  "Can't get enough of these...." he murmurs, squeezing and sucking until  Lenah is nearly tearing at his hair in her frenzied enjoyment.    
  
Her legs are open wide for him, he can feel her moist nest nuzzled against his taut belly.  Rising on one elbow, he runs a course hand up the inside of her thigh, to find her wet and willing.  Slowly, he guides himself inside until he is buried to the hilt, accompanied by Lenah's eloquent groan and his own satisfied grunt.  "Oh, Bronn," she breathes, rising up to meet his first thrusts.  "Yes.....yes...."  
  
His tempo increases quickly, rocking, writhing, her legs wrapped around his calves, her fingernails digging into his buttocks.  The air is far from silent -- the creaking of the mattress frame, Bronn's exhalations of exertion, Lenah's affirmations of carnal thrall.  Her tight chamber sheaths him again and again and again, milking his cock -- until the moment when Lenah cries out, her warmth exploding into rhythmic caresses along his length.  An unintelligible shout of triumph breaks from his throat, as Bronn looses his long pent-up seed, pumping until every drop is deposited deep.  
  
Afterwards, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, they lie contentedly spent, still in their embrace, his hips atop hers, their heads facing on the pillow.  
  
"Gods, Lenah," is all Bronn can say, smoothing back her hair.  
  
"Gods indeed," she responds, eyes shining, as she cups his bearded jaw.  They renew their kissing -- long, languid, deep -- losing all track of time but never leaving behind the sensual mood.  Eventually, Bronn pulls her leg up, shifting his body, and Lenah realizes what is happening.     
  
"Bronn!" she exclaims with intimate approval.  "You really ARE a mighty swordsman!"  
  
Ser Bronn the Everlasting chuckles.  "I have a worthy partner," he compliments, caressing a breast as his mouth claims hers once more.    
  
Thus they continue as the sellsword's comeback grows fully firm.  When he begins grinding in earnest, Lenah marvels teasingly, "And I thought I would have to take you in my mouth to start round two...."  
  
"Wouldn't mind if you did," Bronn retorts lustfully into her ear, nibbling a lobe.  
  
"Hmmmmm....." Lenah speculates lazily, lids closed, responding anew to the stroke of his thick member against her sensitive jewel.  ".....lick you....suck you..." -- a gentle bite on one pectoral -- "...tickle that secret place behind your balls with my tongue?"  
  
With a tortured groan, Bronn disengages and flops onto his back.  "Less talking, more cock-sucking, woman!" he commands, grinning.  He folds his arms behind his head in anticipation.  
  
Smiling, Lenah straddles his waist, leaning down and pressing against him, entwining  her fingers with his to stretch towards the headboard.  "You want me to suck your cock, Bronn?" she whispers beside his cheek, her nipples brushing his chest.    
  
"Mmmmmm....you know it," he murmurs feelingly, closing his eyes in surrender.  Suddenly, he feels the twist of silk around one wrist, followed by the other.  His eyes fly open.    
  
"In time," promises Lenah wickedly, tightening his silken restraints.   
  
More than a little wary of the implied loss of control, Bronn warns with an edge to his voice, "I can break these bonds easily."  
  
Massaging his taut shoulders, Lenah slides down his body to kiss the tip of his nose.  "You can.....but you won't want to."


	7. Chapter Seven

"Seven hells!" growls Bronn in exquisite agony.  Lenah has placed her mouth on nearly every part of his body except the one he wants her to.  She has kissed her way down the undersides of his outflung arms, across his chest, pressing warm lips against his nipples.  Her tongue has drawn a line between his abs to circle his navel, studiously stopping short of his throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling.  Now she is on all fours facing his feet, sucking little circlets up the insides of his thighs.  The scent of her womanhood is in his nostrils, the heart-shaped beauty  of her rounded bottom with its dark, glistening center is in his vision.  _Is this what it's like die of ecstasy?_ , he wonders wildly.  
  
Finally, finally, he feels Lenah's warm mouth on his swollen head, popping him in and out of pursed lips.  He sighs long and loud, bucking a little to try to force more of him into her throat, but Lenah is firmly in control.  With two hands on either side of his sack, she forces his legs wide as she tongues his shaft.  Suddenly, his balls are being sucked, and Bronn has to hold his breath at the sensation.  When her tongue-tip finds the most sensitive spot on his body, Bronn's brain explodes in sensual overload.  He longs only for her to finish him this way, but Lenah selfishly saves something for herself.  Sitting up, she slows the tempo, touching him solely to cap with a finger, the early slickness that seeps from his tip.  Only when his breathing slows, does she reach back and unwrap the scarf that ties one hand.  He frees the other side with a muscular jerk.    
  
Gratefully, he comes to a sitting position, wrapping himself around her from behind, as Lenah slides down onto his engorged length with a sigh of satisfaction.  She rides him slowly, while Bronn alternately pinches her peaked discs and caresses her lower cheeks.  Gradually, their bodies become more and more tense, until he pulls her up against him to warn softly, "I'm about to explode like wildfire...."  
  
"By all the Seven, so am I," promises Lenah, leading his hand down to her mound.  His touch is all it takes to send her into trembling spasms of rapture.  A sharp intake of breath and a grunt signals Bronn's own release, an almost painful pleasure after the torture she has put him through.  
  
  


*******************

 

In the aftermath, they slake their thirst with golden wine from the Arbor, and share the plate of pantry findings.  Lounging side by side with the platter on the bed between them, they eat with their hands, nibbling tidbits and scattering crumbs.  Bronn devours most of the meat, remarking with a wink, "Fucking you is hungry work, Lenah."

She smiles with her eyes, as she sucks an olive into her mouth.  "By all means, you must keep up your strength."

Bronn ponders the moment, his gaze growing salacious.  "Let me see that again," he suggests, picking up another plump green fruit of the olive tree.  He touches the morsel to her full lips, which she rounds prettily as he pushes the succulent snack inside with his thumb.  Her green depths smoulder, as he withdraws his digit slowly. 

Lenah chews and swallows delicately before murmuring coquettishly, "I _do_ love olives...."  Bronn smiles his rogue's smile, which she can barely see in the deepening dusk.  After a moment, she asks, "Will you light the candles?"

Bronn throws back his half of the coverlet, taking the plate of food away with him.  While he pads around the room on bare feet tending to the lighting, Lenah takes him in with her eyes.  He's not the most brawny man she's ever bedded, nor the most beautiful; yet there is something about his wiry strength and dangerous demeanor that she finds beyond compelling.  And gods know, he more than fills her bedchamber. 

With the candlelight casting intimate shadows, the mood softens and slows.  Bronn returns to slide under the covers, reaching to pull Lenah into the curve of his arm.  Both are silent, sated, aware of their breathing falling into sync. 

Eventually, Lenah breaks the silence with a question she has been entertaining for some time.  "Have you ever bedded a  woman you didn't pay for?" she asks with curiosity from her spot pillowed on his bicep. 

Bronn turns his head to look at her quizzically.  _Cheeky bitch._

Lenah shrugs in his arms, making the not-so-innocent observation, "All you ever talk about is whores."

The sellsword lies back, a smile of fond remembrance parting his lips.  "Oh, there've been a few fair number of tavern wenches that came along willingly."

"I don't blame them," responds Lenah teasingly, tweaking a masculine nipple in play.  She pauses, before voicing the next query that comes to her mind following his words.  "Have you ever taken  a woman _unwillingly_?"  She realizes the answer is more like to be one rather than the other.  She holds no illusions about the life he's led, the company he's kept. 

There is a long silence, while Bronn struggles with the question of how much of himself to reveal.  "Nah," he says finally.  "I'd rather kill a man than rape his woman."

Lenah pushes up on his chest to survey his countenance.  "You're not as bad a man as you want everyone to believe, Bronn," she says with real understanding. 

He looks away, his face dark with the memory of past deeds.  "I've done some terrible things, Lenah."

Gently, she turns his chin to bring his eyes back to hers.  "I don't doubt that," she tells him quietly.  "But you're strong, inside as well as out.  And you have a wicked sense of humour."  She coaxes a smile with that.  "And somewhere, deep in here...." --  she places a hand over his heart -- "....is the brave young boy who was forced to make hard choices to survive."

Bronn sighs.  "Don't believe in me, Lenah," he cautions.  There is almost a plea in his azure depths.  "I'll only disappoint you."

"You haven't yet."  She seals the words with a kiss, and a soft caress below.  Then she snuggles down against him, stifling a yawn.  "Will you stay?" she asks sleepily.  "I would feel so much safer to wake up next to you...."

As Lenah drifts into slumber, Bronn gazes at the dark head nested on his shoulder.  Incongruous feelings stir within him -- tenderness, protectiveness.....and one other he cannot name. 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter Eight

Stance wide, a naked Bronn pushes down on the resistant head of his morning-hard cock, directing the slow, painful stream against the corner of the cottage.  The air is brisk, raising gooseflesh under the hair on his arms, creating a thin vapor of steam where his warm liquid meets the cold ground.  Thankfully, he has a soft bed to return to and a woman whose heat ignites him from inside out.  Their prolonged play before slumber would have been enough to leave any man beyond blissful.  But then there was the lazy coupling, half-asleep, in the thin hour when the moon floats on the wane.  And now he wants her once again.   
  
As his flow weakens to a trickle with no real loss of hardness, an anticipatory leer claims Bronn's bearded face.  _Let's see how she likes my wake-up call_ , he calculates happily, cupping both root and stem, shaking off as best he can when so rigid.  Then he turns his attention to a quiet re-entry.  
  
With his focus on the cottage door and what lies within, Bronn fails to notice the flicker of movement by the stable.  Hobart furtively  ducks behind the corner, taking careful note of all he sees.  
  
"I've got you now, you uppity sellsword," he cackles quietly.  No man sports morning wood like _that_ after a night on the floor.  The servile groomsman sees both loyalty and opportunity converging conveniently.  His lordship should be mighty interested in this turn of events......  
  
  
******************  
  
 _  
_ _Now there's a sight to keep a man hard!_   Bronn pauses as he lifts the covers, admiring Lenah's curvaceous backside turned to him.  She is half on her side, half on her stomach, lower leg extended, upper leg bent  -- affording him the access he wants.  Slipping into bed beside her, he gently explores her moist, sticky nest with his fingers, spreading the remains of his seed around the opening, parting her lips.  Then he pushes himself inside.  
  
"Bronn!!"  Lenah wakens with an exclamation.  
  
He chuckles into her ear.  "Glad you knew who it was....."  Pulling the thigh of her bent leg into an even sharper angle, he seats himself deep.  
  
"Mmmmmmm...." Lenah sighs delicately, responding to his slow thrusts with her hips.  "That sword would be hard to mistake."  
  
"Hard it is," quips Bronn devilishly, giving new meaning to the word 'cock-sure'.  His partner murmurs in appreciation.  
  
They spend long minutes finding the rhythm of each other in a new day.  Eventually, Bronn covers Lenah's hand where it lays on the pillow, pulling it around the front of her.  "Touch yourself for me," he implores brusquely.  
  
A soft, sensual exhalation greets his words.  Looking down her body, Bronn sees Lenah part four fingers into a V,  which she then draws across her lips, along either side of his imbedded member.  The sensation for Bronn is unique, sending his senses in a new direction.  With each stroke,  Lenah massages her tingling jewel, pleasuring herself to the point of pain, moaning in time to her ministrations.  Enthralled, Bronn is almost sorry when Lenah gives a sudden cry of release and pulls her palm back to rest on the mattress.   
  
"Beautiful," he breathes, folding his hand over hers and hugging her against him as she peaks, before shifting his weight more on top of her.  He takes his own pleasure with almost savage speed, pounding her hips into the bed over and over, grunting animalistically in his arousal.  Even after he explodes inside her, it is a long time until his body relaxes enough for him to slip out.  He slides over to lie on his stomach beside her, then leans in for a kiss.   
  
"Good morrow, Lady Lenah, " he says with mock formality, grinning.  
  
  
**************  
  
  
"What is the meaning of this?!!!!"  
  
The voice thunders through the morning air, as the animated couple emerge from the cottage with Bronn delivering a smack on the bottom to something sassy that Lenah has just said.  In an instant, the sellsword's face becomes cold and insouciant, as he turns to face Lord Greystark.  Instinctively, he pushes Lenah behind him.    
  
Though leaning his bulk upon a cane, his lordship is dressed in the full regalia of his dying house.  His voluminous pants are tucked into the tops of scuffed leather boots.  His padded doublet is stretched across his ample girth, the straining buttons attesting to less gluttonous days.  His calf-length cloak bears the Sigil of Greystark and hangs heavily from his shoulders, nearly enveloping the hands that brace him against the ground.  His face is a disturbing shade of red shot with purple.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?!" he demands again in fury.  "Is _this_ what I'm paying for?"  He draws himself up haughtily.  "My daughter will not be courted by a common sellsword.  Only a knight or a lord may claim her."  
  
A beat passes, the animosity between the two palpable.  Lenah holds her breath.  Then Bronn speaks, eyes hard behind his flippant words.    
  
"I wasn't courtin' her so much as just fuckin' her," he drawls in a sardonic brogue.    
  
"Be gone," the old man spits out.  No one makes a move.  
  
"Leave, Sellsword!" shouts Lord Greystark.  Bronn only smiles.  "I can still defend my daughter's honor!" the Lord of Three Wolves threatens wildly, fumbling amongst his layers of clothing to find his scabbard.    
  
Bronn's fingers close around the hilt of the knife he keeps at his back, but his next move is stayed by a gentle hand.  
  
"Father, don't be a fool."  Lenah diffuses her parent with quiet disgust.  Even more quietly, she says, "Bronn, you had better leave."  
  
"Not without my gold," the avaricious side of him retorts, still facing the aging lord.    
  
"I will have it for you at the gate," Lord Greystark pronounces with icy finality, and plods off in the direction of the manor house.  
  
Silence reigns, the morning's promise shattered, the night's warmth chilled.  _What a fine fuck-up_ , Bronn thinks, the fall-out only now beginning to take shape in his mind.  He turns to Lenah.  "Is this what you want?"  
  
Lenah rolls her eyes, impatient and angry with the world.  "He's my father, Bronn," she reminds him sharply.  "I'd rather _not_ see his innards spilled on my doorstep."  She fixes him with her green gaze.  "Besides, we were just fucking."  Her dead stare and her tone are a cold challenge for him to withdraw his mocking words.  
  
Wincing, Bronn searches for other words, but finds none.  _Uncharted waters,_ his brain warns.  He sighs, and something unreadable clouds his blue eyes.  
  
"Stay safe, pretty lady," he says softly, turning on his heel and walking away.


	9. Chapter 9

Massaging the bridge of his nose with stubby fingers, Tyrion closes his eyes against the mounting ledgers and swimming columns of numbers that have plagued his morning.  Being Master of Coin is a damn sight more tedious than serving as Hand.  He curses his sister for the thousandth time, and his father as well, for his new position.  Now he has real _work_ to do.  He slams shut the open accounting before him, raising a cloud of dust.  The early afternoon sun streaming through the roof of the solar highlights the dancing particles.  
  
A knock on the portal interrupts his indulgence in self pity.  Tyrion looks up hopefully, as Podrick pops his head shyly through the half-opening.  "A visitor, my lord...."  
  
The oaken door swings back abruptly on its hinges, and a black-clad sellsword strides into the room as though he needs no introduction.  A disconcerted Pod mutters a rushed apology and departs.  
  
"Bronn!" exclaims Tyrion with both delight and surprise.  His visitor stalks grimly to the sideboard, pours himself a large pewter of Dornish, and downs it in one toss.  
  
Now truly taken aback, the dwarf  lofts his dark eyebrows.  "Back so soon?  Was the Greystark job not to your liking?" he asks mildly.    
  
Pouring himself more red, Bronn flops down roughly into the chair opposite and props his boots on the table.  "Aye, the job was to my liking," he answers a little too readily, a little too rosily.  Then he scowls.  "But Lord Eatsalot is more of a cunt than your nephew, in my book."  Once again, he tips the goblet to his angry countenance.  
  
Tyrion eyes his friend carefully.  "What _was_ the job.....exactly?"  
  
Bronn does not meet his gaze, instead studying the diminishing contentsof his wine vessel.  "Guard his daughter," he replies guardedly.    
  
Tyrion nods, knowing the sellsword only too well.  "So......" -- he begins conversationally, after a pause -- "I have not had the pleasure of meeting Lady Greystark the Younger.  No doubt a plump grey-haired matron dedicated to her knitting and her cats," he suggests.  
  
"Nope."  Rolling his tongue across the inside of his cheek, Bronn can't help but smile.  "A curvy dark-haired beauty dedicated to horseback riding and cock-teasing."  
  
Tyrion's digits drum the book of accounts in front of him.  "Don't tell me, let me guess," he expands dryly.  "You bedded the lady you were hired to protect.  And Daddy sent you packing when he found out."  
  
The sellsword nods.  "Yep.  Pretty much the way it happened.  Said only  a 'knight' or a 'lord' could have her."  The way he rolls his eyes whilst making a mock toast shows his disdain for such titles beyond his reach.  
  
Tyrion narrows his eyes, real suspicions beginning to form.  _A thing denied becomes a thing desired_ ,  goes the old adage.  There is one way to test his burgeoning theory.  
  
"Oh well."  He keeps his tone casual.  "A night at Chataya's should make you forget all about the Greystarks."  Tyrion moves to hop off his chair, but Bronn seems lost in thought.  
  
"You go.  Not in the mood."  
  
Tyrion sits back.  Not in the mood for a brothel -- his friend must truly be besotted.  Swinging to the floor after all, he walks over and helps himself to his own winestem, then returns to the table.  Twisting the goblet's ornate base contemplatively, he muses,  "So tell me, Bronn.....What does your black heart lament the loss of the most?  The purse.....the free fucking......" -- he glances up quickly from beneath his heavy brows -- "or the lady herself?"  
  
There is no answer, only a quick warning glare from the sellsword.   
  
"Can it be the third?" speculates the dwarf in an exaggerated tone.  "Do I detect the glimmer of a rosy lining around that black heart?"  
  
"And Shae means nothing to you," Bronn observes sarcastically, succinctly, as he finishes off his wine.  
  
Tyrion feels a reluctant twinge of truth.  He's never been entirely sure of Shae's affections, and at times suspects some play-acting on her part.  Yet he chooses to hope that there is something real between them.  Theirs is an impossible relationship in the long term; yet he realizes suddenly that it is within his power to make things possible for Bronn and his lady.  
  
After a long moment of silent study, Tyrion crosses the room to the corner where his short sword is propped.  Unsheathing it, he walks over to Bronn.  "Kneel," he commands.  
  
"I will not," returns the sellsword, recumbent and brash.  
  
Tyrion rolls his eyes.  "Stand then."  Bronn does so.  Reaching up, the Master of Coin and former Hand of the King places a sword tip on the sellsword's left shoulder.    
  
"By the power vested in me by King Joffrey Baratheon, as member of the Small Council, by right of noble birth.....For your service to the realm in the Battle for King's Landing, for championing my life in the Vale....I name you Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."  The blade passes over Bronn's head to rest upon the opposite shoulder.  "Kneel" -- another eyeroll -- "a common man, rise a knight."  
  
A hard swallow and a brusque nod are the only emotions Bronn shows.  "About time," he quips, with a faint grin.  The two share a moment of unspoken understanding, as Tyrion hold out his forearm for a handclasp.    
  
Harnessing new energy, Bronn starts to strut around the room.  "Now that's all well and good," he calculates, "but the fat lord is not like to be impressed by a mere hedge knight."  
  
"What?"  Tyrion is wearily affronted.  "You want land, too?"   
  
"It would be nice," Bronn agrees matter-of-factly.  "Have to have someplace to raise my sons."  
  
"How old _is_ she?" Tyrion asks curiously, knowing Lady Lenah to be a widow of many years' marriage.    
  
Bronn thinks a moment, then shrugs.  "Five and thirty?" he guesses.  "What does it matter?"  
  
The dwarf feels bound to caution his friend.  "That field may not be was fertile as it was at five and ten."  
  
"Then I'll have to plant thrice as much seed," Bronn responds unworriedly, with a man-to-man wink.  "Now about that land....":  
  
Turning to his pile of papers, Tyrion shuffles the pages briefly, before finding the one he seeks.  "Fine."  He tosses it to the top in apparent annoyance.  "Copper Mountain is available."  He notes Bronn's look of interest.  
  
"Where's that?"  his opportunistic friend wants to know.  
  
"Southern Vale," Tyrion  replies vaguely.  "The last Lord of Copper Mountain died childless on the Blackwater.  It is said his widow went mad with grief."  Bronn unconcernedly drains the wine bottle between their two drinking stems.  Tyrion continues, "Copper Keep holds the rights to some of the most lucrative and indispensable  mines in the Seven Kingdoms.  You'll even have something to do, inbetween making little Bronns."  He allows himself a bit of a sarcastic smirk at that.  Bronn looks up with an eager grin.  "Inspect your mining operations.  Defend them from the Hill Tribes.  And get them back on line."  This last is spoken pointedly, as the realm's chief coinmaster.  While doing a favor for a friend, Tyrion has also shrewdly found a way to get the vital ore resources up and running after the war.    
  
Raising his pewter to toast the arrangement, Bronn interjects, "Just one more thing...."  
  
Tyrion gives him a baleful look, withholding his winebowl.       
  
"It would be best to have this all in writing," the sellsword thinks with practicality.  "So it's not just my word."  
  
Tyrion stares at him in exasperation, then bellows, "Pod!!!  Bring me quill and parchment!"  
  
With a metallic clink, their goblets meet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the chapter that all the J/B shippers have been waiting for. Hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER TEN

 

Cantering hooves beat out a steady rhythm along the Rosby Road, sending up clods of dirt in their wake.  _The animal is tiring,_ observes Bronn inside his head, assessing the horse's gait.  _We've made this trip once already today._ Dusk is fast approaching, and it is true, he has hurried on his return to Three Wolves.  He pats the front of his plaited leather jerkin, reassuring himself that the precious cylinder of rolled parchment is still there.  _Can't wait to toss the news at the fat lord's feet,_ he smirks inwardly.  _I'll have his daughter AND his respect._   He quells any qualms he might have about Lenah's welcome with the remembrance of her warm lips.  
  
In the gathering gloom ahead, Bronn suddenly makes out a rider coming into view, galloping in the direction of King's Landing.  Warily he covers his swordhilt.  _An urgent messenger?  A clumsy attack?_ His questions and his caution do not wait long, as the figure reins up beside him.   
  
Bronn draws his steel.  "You," he accuses grimly, setting the tip of his blade against Hobart's chest.  "Was it you who gave us up to the old man?"  His anger rises anew at the memory.  
  
Wide-eyed, the groomsman opens trembling palms in surrender.  "I....I...I thought...." he stammers, fear making him forget the rest of the sentence.  He tries again.  "I....I saw you going back into the cottage.  It was a m-m-mistake to go to Lord G-gr-gr-greystark," he bleats abjectly.   
  
"That it was," agrees Bronn, never lessening the pressure of his swordarm.  
  
Hobart clasps his hands to control their shaking.  "If you had still been there...." he laments weakly, his words trailing off into thin air.  
  
"What then?" queries Bronn darkly, hiding his alarm behind the cold threat of his gaze.  
  
"They.....they came in broad daylight, took Lady Lenah from her bath.  Six of them."  Hobart cannot raise his eyes.  "The leader named himself Locke."  
  
Bronn's blade goes to the groomsman's throat.  "If Lenah is dead, you will follow her into the grave," he promises with deadly certainty, holding his breath against the answer.   
  
"No," protests Hobart quickly.  "No, they....they _took_ her."  Bronn releases his lungs.  "Locke said Lord Bolton wants her alive now, as a new plaything for his bastard."  
  
Bronn's brain races in the places between their conversation.  _I'll need a new mount,_ he thinks.  _And some idea of where this Bolton bastard is like to be.  
  
_ "How long ago?" the sellsword barks.  
  
"Midday," supplies Hobart promptly, beginning to hope his life might be spared.   
  
Bronn's face takes on a cruel mask, as he gazes at his prey.  "I can't decide whether to run you through for stupidity, or just cut out your tongue."  _Perhaps both_.  
  
Hope lost, Hobart blanches, then pisses himself.  After a pause, Bronn makes a decision.  "For now, I'll let you keep your tongue."  He lowers his sword.  "Return to Lord Fartsalot, use it to tell him that I'll go after his daughter."  A cutthroat's  confidence comes to the fore.  "And when I bring her back, I'll want much more than a purse of gold."  
  
  
******************  
  
  
Bang!!  Bang!!  Bang!!  
  
A dismal Tyrion rolls  out of his lonely bed and plods over to answer the door.  Where was that blasted Pod when he really needed him?  Pulling over  a stool, he steps up to eye his visitor through the peephole.  After putting the riser back beside the portal, he levers the doorhandle.   
  
"What is is now, Bronn?  Did you forget to request a fleet?"  His tone is pleasantly sarcastic.  
  
Glancing past Tyrion's shoulder into the torchlit chambers, the sellsword inquires uncertainly but with little concern, "Am I interrupting?"  
  
Walking backwards to admit his friend, the dwarf sighs.  "Sadly, no.  My wife finds me too repulsive for her liking.  My lover finds me too married for hers."  
  
Bronn briefly twists his elastic face in sympathy, then proceeds without preamble as he steps inside.  "Bolton's thug has seized her.  Says he has orders to take her to Lord Leech's Bastard."   
  
Tyrion closes the door.  "How can I help?" he asks simply, though he is consumed with curiosity about some unknown blood feud between House Greystark and House Bolton.  A tale for another day.  
  
Bronn tries to control his sense of urgency, knowing that ill-born misdirection will only cost him time -- time that Lenah does not have.  "I need a fresh horse, mine is nearly blown," he outlines his requirements succinctly.  "And I need some idea of who I'm dealing with."  
  
"Did the thug leave a calling card?" Tyrion asks evenly, drawing his friend by the sleeve into the pale light beneath a wall sconce.   
  
"Called himself Locke."  Bronn's fingers close in an impotent fist.  "Doubtless the same craven who threw the knife in the marketplace."  _Should I have pursued him, rather than lose myself in Lenah's kiss?_ He hopes the answer will not haunt the remainder of his days.  His nerves lead his feet into a pattern.  
  
Offguard, Tyrion is caught between two surprises.  He had not heard of a knife attack.  But he _has_ heard of the attacker.   
  
"Locke."  The shortest Lannister nods in recognition.  His voice becomes insistent.  "You _**must**_ take the time to seek out my brother.  That name will mean much and more to him."  Bronn leaves off his pacing, the caged animal within him narrowing his eyes in predatory attention.  "Jaime may very well elect to accompany you.  He has his own score to settle with Bolton's thug."  
  
"Don't need no help from a one-handed swordsman," Bronn decrees shortly.   
  
"Jaime's skills are not lost," the dwarf assures him.  "He's found a sparring partner" -- Tyrion takes a deep breath, knowing what he reveals -- "in secret."  He tilts his head pragmatically.  Gods know, his brother and the maid seem to have a strong bond.  Could she be more than a sparring partner?  He quickly discards the idea as an errant afterthought.  
  
Bronn looks skeptical.  _Must I always be saddled with cripples?_ he thinks."I work better alone."  
  
"Surely two swords are better than one," Tyrion continues reasonably.  "Locke will have at least half a dozen men."  
  
"Aye, that he has," acquiesces the sellsword.  
  
Turning to his writing table, Tyrion finds a blank sheet.  "This writ will command you the fastest steed in the royal stable, short my brother's mount," he promises, dipping his quill.  "Go to see him before you leave," he presses again.  "I know naught of  Bolton's Bastard, nor this man Locke, let alone which direction to find them."  He looks up to fix the sellsword with an eye.  
  
"But Jaime will."

 

 

 

******************

 

 

 

 

When he rolls over to embrace her, the angled curtain of his golden locks falls across his vision. 

"Don't be tense," Jaime whispers.  "Tell me when you are ready."

Gradually Brienne relaxes, as his left hand lovingly traces the sinews of her throat, the angles of her breastbone, the roundness of her breasts.  At first, her palms remain chastely against the sides of his ribcage.  Soon, however, she begins to succumb, running her touch along the muscles of his back and chest in her own sensual exploration.  

"Oh, Ser Jaime," she breathes, voice deep.

Her partner rumbles in quiet mirth.  "I think you can forego the 'Ser' ," he suggests, kissing her tenderly.  Her tentative tongue meets his, then retreats, surrendering a role she would never give him in battle.  Languidly, Jaime explores her mouth, focusing only on the coupling of their lips.  He is faintly nervous.  As close as they have become, the physical realm is awkward ground for both.  He has ever only been with his sister, the Ice Queen.  And Brienne has never been with anyone.

He quickly finds the Maid of Tarth to be innocently yet vocally enthusiastic, an encouragement for him to move his caresses down her body.  He is ridiculously hard, a circumstance in which he has found himself frequently in her presence, ever since the baths in Harrenhal.  His kisses find her nipples, and Brienne twitches in surprise, then melts into a sigh.  Her lean warrior's body is a glory beneath his hands, a spark against his flesh.  It is all he can do to control his lust.  He feels clumsy using his off-side, but Brienne seems to have no complaints, judging from her mounting moans of pleasure.  With effortless strength, she pulls him between her long legs.

"Now," Brienne says simply, eyes wide. 

Nearly losing himself in the blue pools of her gaze, Jaime slowly draws his hand up the inside of her thigh.  "This will hurt a little," he warns softly, gently testing her moist opening.

"I know," she whispers trustingly, her mind as ready as her body.

Half-closing his lids, Jaime positions his swollen tip at her portal, pushing slowly up to her maidenhead, then thrusting quickly.  Both grunt in unison when he breaches the barrier.  Silent, still, Jaime waits for his lady to initiate movement, not wanting to cause her more pain. 

"Oh, Kingslayer," groans Brienne, reverting to a name that will henceforth become a term of endearment between them.  Her hips rise eagerly, and they begin their lovemaking in earnest.

Months of tension and longing translate into slow, writhing satisfaction.  His lean hips buck and dip relentlessly, plumbing virgin depths.  Her taut skin  responds in ways beyond her ken.  Their tempo increases, and Jaime can only hope she is as far along on the ride as he is.  Suddenly, Brienne gives a shout of surprise and a shudder of release, digging her fingernails into the firm flesh of his buttocks so deeply as to leave marks.  With a thankful exhalation, he explodes within her tight maiden's sheath, sending his seed deep.

Afterwards, rolling to the side, he pulls her close, softly kissing her forehead.  "I guess we won't be calling you the _Maid_ of Tarth any longer," he quips with a grin.

Secretly grateful for the ice-breaker, Brienne punches him on the bicep.  "Jaime!" she protests in embarrassment.  Chuckling, he pins her playfully, tickling her ribs until she joins his laughter.

Bang!!  Bang!!  Bang!!

Jaime looks to the door in the outer room with supreme annoyance.  "Seven bloody hells!" he mutters.  "Who has the balls to talk their way past the guard at this time of night?"

Bang!!  Bang!!  Bang!!

Exasperated beyond belief, he leaves the bed, grabbing up his breeches from the floor.

Bang!!  Bang!!  Bang!!

"Just a MINUTE!" he shouts angrily, struggling to yank on both pantlegs.  He stalks to the door and throws it open, threatening whoever is there, "This had better be good...."

"Lannister," Bronn says, by way of greeting.

Jaime's face widens in surprise.  "You!  You're Tyrion's man -- Bronn, is it?"

The sellsword nods.  "Aye.  Your brother sent me."

"Remind me to thank him," Jaime responds with wry sarcasm.  "What in seven hells is it, that it cannot wait till morning?"  He bars the threshold with his half-naked body, offering no welcome.

Bronn senses that this time, he _has_ interrupted, but he has no leisure for feigned regrets.  "A lady I ca...." he stops, amends his words.  "A lady _in_ my care was taken by force at midday, by Bolton hunters.  They mean to deliver her to Roose's Bastard."

"What has that to do with me?" scoffs Jaime impatiently.  He pushes his hair back from his forehead, catching the faint scent of Brienne's sweetness on his hand.

Bronn rocks on his heels, in a hurry to make himself understood, knowing he is doing a bad job of it.  "I mean to go after them," he avows.  "The Imp said you would know where they were headed."

"Ramsey Snow's playground is the Dreadfort," supplies Jaime with cold courtesy, his grip on the doorhandle, already closing it.  "Good luck."

"Locke."

The oaken barrier stops halfway, tense fingers clenching the lever.  "What did you say?" Jaime asks in a soft, deadly voice.

"The leader -- Locke," Bronn repeats, watching carefully.  "Tyrion said the name would mean something to you."

"That it does," agrees the Lannister grimly, after a pause.  "It means I will be going with you."  Another pause and a half-turn to the space behind him.  "I and one other."

The sellsword snorts.  "Don't need no army...." he begins.

"Not an army," Jaime cuts him off.  "Merely two more people who have unfinished business where Locke is concerned."  The dark tone in which he couches his words bodes ill for Bolton's lieutenant.

Bronn scowls, but raises no more objections.  "I have no time to argue," he decides gruffly, backing away to depart.  "I leave from the Dragon Gate in three-quarters of an hour.  If you and your companion are late, I ride alone."

          

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's interesting to see how the show writers are pairing Jaime and Bronn. I'd already buddied those two up and written most of this fic before the show ever went in that direction. Really looking forward to S5!

"The man took my HAND, Cersei."  
  
"Apparently he took your manhood as well."  
  
His self-centered sister _would_ think that, muses Jaime, seeing as she was no longer on the receiving end of said manhood.   
  
Rolling in the saddle to his horse's gait, he thinks back on his hurried, late night audience with the Queen.  It hadn't helped matters any, that she had initially taken his visit to be an amorous return to her arms.  The truth had stung her ego.  He plays out the remainder of the scene in his mind.  
  
"Go," she spits at him, twisting her lovely mouth.  "Joffrey doesn't need you.  I don't need you.  We have the Kettleblacks."  Cersei thinks this will wound him, but he only nods, turns on his heel, cloak snapping in the cold air, and strides out.   
  
Jaime reflects on the razor's edge upon which he now finds himself balanced.  If the Queen were ever to find out about his new relationship with the lady warrior of Tarth, both lovers' lives would be forfeit.  And it was becoming increasingly difficult to justify Brienne's presence in the city.  Best to get out of King's Landing for awhile.  A leave of absence from the Kingsguard to hunt down Locke is a perfect excuse.  At the moment, he doesn't care if he ever sees his sister again.   
  
After his terse visit to Cersei, the trio's departure from the Gate of Dragons had been efficient, marred only by the sellsword's clumsy attempts at humor.  
  
"Can you spare a hand here?" he'd japed, while tying a bedroll across his mount's rump.  "Oh, that's right......that would leave you with none."  The smug bastard had not received the satisfaction of a reaction.  
  
The hours of darkness have seen them well on the road, putting long miles behind them with only a brief stop for water.  Bronn rides ahead with the couple close behind, all three riders alternating periodically between a walk and a canter.  Now, as the stars begin to fade, so do their coursers.  
  
"Ser Bronn."  Nudging her way forward, Brienne addresses the pacesetter.  
  
"Ser Bronn."  The sellsword twists in his saddle, a partial acknowledgement that he has heard.  "The horses need to rest."  
  
Slowing marginally, Bronn falls abreast, sporting a scowl.  "I'll steal another when this one fails," he suggests rashly, thinking only of the ground to be covered.  "The two of you slackadays can stop if you must."  
  
Jaime rolls his eyes, barely concealing his annoyance.  "The next town where there are likely to be horses is ten leagues farther on."  His clipped tone bespeaks his forced patience.  "None of us will make it that far without a rest."  He waits fruitlessly for a reply, then drives his point further.  "We will not win the day once we find them, if we are exhausted."  Sulking, Bronn does not respond, nor does he halt.  
  
"Sellsword!"  Jaime reins up, with Brienne swinging round to Bronn's outside, blocking his way.  
  
"Whatever Locke's company are going to do to her, they've done already."  The truth is harsh, but it is also his best weapon of reason against Bronn's obstinance.  Jaime thinks back to his own deception, that which saved the Maid of Tarth from the brutality of Locke's men.  Lady Lenah will not have the protection of sapphires.  
  
"I do not fault you for going to her rescue," he says more kindly.  "Just know that what you rescue may be a broken thing."  
  
Staring into the pale grey horizon, Bronn sets his jaw.  Only the corners of his eyes hint at the emotion he feels.  "Might be," he agrees with cold pragmatism, followed by soft and deadly avowal.  "If this is true, I'll spend the rest of my life killing Boltons."  
  
A knowing smile threatens to curl Jaime's mouth.  "Uncommon loyalty for a hired blade," he remarks succinctly, beginning to see the truth.  
  
Likewise, Brienne drops her eyes, disconcerted in her own recognition.  Uncommon, yes, but not unknown.  She once bore the same fervor for a king who claimed the stag crown, a man for whom she wore the Rainbow Cloak.  Odd, how she can scarce recall his face now.  That was a lifetime ago, a girlish love long past.  Today she is a woman, made so at the hands, or rather the hand, of the Kingslayer.  She blushes in remembrance, as the men leave the trail, scouting for a likely campsite.   
  
  
*********************  
  
  
"Riddle me this, Lannister."  
  
Crouching, Bronn stirs the meager campfire, before propping a stick-impaled sausage against a rock to roast over the outer coals.  "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"  His eyes dance at his cleverness.  
  
Jaime doesn't even bother to look his direction.  "Hilarious."  Although he is struggling to spit his own and Brienne's morsels for cooking, he grimly perseveres.  
  
Smirking at his companion's difficulty, Bronn tries again.  "Very well.  If you don't know that one.....let's ponder this."  _There must be **some** way to rankle this highborn twat.  _ "If you become the boy cunt's top advisor, will you be known in the histories as the Handless Hand?"  
  
"You're more droll than a barrel of mummers," Jaime says coldly, dropping cross-legged into the dirt and adding his skewers to the fire.  
  
Reclining on a hip and an elbow, the sellsword resorts to jocularity.  "How 'bout a hand of skins then?  I call blacks."  
  
"As befits you."  Jaime stares into the flames without turning.  
  
A  beat goes by before Bronn shakes his head, compressing his lips in mock disappointment.  "You're not nearly as much fun to needle as your sister."  
  
"My sister's not much fun in any way," Jaime returns contemplatively, unable to avoid a mental comparison between the hateful Cersei and the honorable Brienne.  
  
Bronn senses the undercurrent of Jaime's dueling affections, but cannot pinpoint it.  Taking a new tack, he jerks his chin towards Brienne, who is rubbing down the horses just beyond earshot.  "I'll bet _she's_ a bit 'o fun, in a tourney tilt sort of way," he suggests with a man-to-man wink.  
  
This remark gains him a sharp look from the golden knight.  "You leave her alone, Sellsword."    _  
  
Finally.....a chink in the armor, _ thinks Bronn with satisfaction.  "Oh ho!" he crows, overly jubilant.  "You?" -- he nods to Jaime -- "and" -- a tilt of the head at Brienne's back -- "the big lass?"  
  
After a moment, Jaime dips his gaze in a smiling affirmative, judging there will be little way to disguise the fact on the road.  "Does that surprise you?" he asks quietly, curiously.  
  
Bronn shrugs, unconcerned, pausing to turn his sausage.  "Makes no difference to _me_ who you fuck," he reassures the lovesick Lannister.  _Still a damn sight better than your sister._  
  
"The Crown cannot know."  Bronn looks at his traveling mate blankly.  "Cersei cannot know about us," Jaime says from deep in his throat, half a warning and half a threat.  "About Brienne and myself."  
  
The sellsword gives a wave of his hand.  "Like I said -- who you fuck is no concern of mine."  
  
As the sausages sputter, a wary companionability arises between the two men, a tentative trust that seeps into the unfolding minutes, until one man breaks the silence.  Grinning happily, Jaime proceeds to indulge in a bit of masculine bragging, as well as male bonding.   
  
"You should see what she has underneath that battledress," he confides, talking with his hand as much as his voice.  "She's magnificent......strong and beautiful......"  His words linger in the air, as his memories take hold.   
  
Sitting up, Bronn reaches over and claps him on the back.  "You're welcome to it," he promises, indulging in his own memories.  "I like mine short and ........bouncy."  His mind fills with a vision of Lenah's tits bobbing merrily whilst her tightly rounded bottom slaps against his pelvis during an exceptionally enthusiastic ride.   
  
Soon both men are decidedly uncomfortable, all concentration claimed by the growing tension in their groins.  When Brienne rejoins them they are taken unawares.  Snatching up the skewers with their blistered lengths of meat, she chides the pair, "The sausages are burnt!"  
  
She can only puzzle over the sloppy grins they wear.  
  
  
  
  



	12. Chapter Twelve

  
  
  
The golden orb traces its arc across the Westerosi sky.  Morning's light brightens to peak at noon, then mellows into a lazy afternoon glow.  The miles and hours go by with nary a trace of their prey, while Bronn resents every stop they make to rest their mounts.  The only comfort he can take is that Locke's party must rest as well.  He suspects they may have put on a fair number of miles that first day, before the trio started after them in the midnight watches.  He hopes they might be taking a more leisurely pace now, feeling they are safely away.  He reckons they will soon stop for sleep.  Unfortunately, the three of them must do the same.  Even he needs some time out of the saddle, though he expects slumber will elude him for most of the night.  Squinting into the setting sun, Bronn sends his thoughts ahead along the Kingsroad.   
  
_Reach inside, Lenah,_ he wills her.  _Find your strength.  I'll be there on the morrow._  
  
  
*******************  
  
  
With a harsh rasping sound, his whetstone caresses the steel, sending up orange sparks into the darkness.   He knows the blade is already honed to a razor's edge, but the activity soothes him.  He pictures putting the point through Locke's face, seeing the life fade out of his flat, brown eyes.  The image brings a dark smile to Bronn's lips.  
  
Across the pit of firelight, the Lannister and his warrior woman are sharing soft conversation.  _Entirely too much smiling,_ he thinks in annoyance.  They look to be such a happy, sappy couple, that after awhile, the temptation is simply too great.  
  
"I'll stand the first watch alone," offers the sellsword, seemingly guileless in his generosity.  He takes a few more slow strokes along his length.  "Unless the lady wants to join me," he adds, grinning roguishly.  "My sword could use a little polishing."   
  
Jerking Brienne quickly to her feet, Jaime pauses to send an angry stare in Bronn's direction.  Brienne looks from one to the other over her shoulder, uncomprehending, as Jaime leads her purposefully away.   
  
Chuckling, Bronn turns back to his task.  _That should spice things up a little,_ he calculates.  
  
  
*********************  
  
  
"Whoreson."  
  
"What?!"  Brienne is honestly confused, resisting the hand in the small of her back.  They are barely out of earshot.  
  
"He was _flirting_ with you!"  Clearly, Jaime finds the sellsword's audacity beyond the pale.  He pushes Brienne relentlessly to the spot where they have left their belongings.  
  
"Jaime, don't be absurd," she scoffs.  "Ser Bronn is on a quest to find his lady love."  The romanticism of it appeals to her sense of chivalry, as well as her new-found sense of femininity.  
  
"He's still flirting with you," grumbles Jaime resentfully, bending to undo their gearpacks.  
  
"He has no interest in me," declares Brienne, a bit embarrassed at the notion, but finding Jaime's jealous pouting strangely endearing.  "He's only trying to pique you."  
  
"Well, he's succeeding," grumps Jaime in continued ill-humor, as he begins to lay out their bedrolls side by side.  
  
"What are you doing?!  He will **_see_**!" hisses Brienne under her breath, casting a frantic glance to where the horses are hobbled and the sellsword is tending his weapon.   
  
"Nothing he hasn't seen before, I'll wager," says Jaime dryly, spreading blankets atop the sleeping pads.  "He'll keep his counsel on this."  
  
Brienne looks dubious, but does bend to aid him in stretching out the corners.  
  
"Why would he?" she asks suspiciously.  
  
The Kingslayer seems sure of his own logic.  "Because he will owe us an enormous debt, once we help him regain his wench."  
  
"Sellswords are known to be faithless debtors," protests the erstwhile Maid of Tarth, unconvinced.  
  
Jaime starts toeing off his boots, gazing at Brienne in encouragement to do the same.  "He also needs our silence as much as we need his."  
  
"How so?" follows Brienne, removing at least her footwear.  
  
Unbuckling his swordbelt with lately tuned dexterity, Jaime replies, "My sister would _love_ to have something that Roose Bolton wants."  He pauses to roll his tongue around the sarcasm.  "And after all, Lady Lenah IS a lesser Stark."  Still playing the aggrieved suitor, he steps closer, lowering his voice intimately.  "Now help me out of this breastplate, and I'll do the same for you.  I'm in need of some comfort."  
  
The ritual of undressing one another is at times both awkward and tender.  Yet their fitful feints and self-conscious smiles are not a damper.  With the evening chill upon the air, both waste no time in seeking the warmth of the blankets.  Gentle kisses, so new between them, soon heat their cocoon under the stars.  
  
Pulling at her lips with his, Jaime whispers a lover's challenge.  "Convince me that cad can't steal you from me."  He runs a finger lightly down her bicep.  
  
Brienne answers in her proper way, "I would NEVER give my favor to a lawless killer like that!"  
  
"Only a law **ful** killer?" quips Jaime quickly, with dark humor.   
  
Cupping his handsome, square-jawed countenance, Brienne fixes him with the sapphires of her eyes.  "You told me the truth of it, Kingslayer," she reminds him solemnly.  "It _was_ lawful."  Heart full, Jaime can only lose himself in this woman who has shown good back into his life.  
  
Lovingly, they trade caresses, with Brienne's becoming more bold as the minutes go by.  Her long fingers explore his member, touching him lightly, then with increasing confidence.  She marvels at his rigid smoothness, delights in his taut jewels.  His newly deft hand plays across the lean curves of her body, leaving behind a sensual trail of flesh enflamed.  When his strong central digit finds her soft mound, Brienne loses all thought, crying out his name, squeezing him instinctively.  
  
With a groan, Jaime envelopes her palm, bringing it back to his lips for a kiss.  "The ground is hard, and so am I.  How _will_ we manage that to your comfort?" he wonders slyly, giving her a chance to take control.  
  
With another check to be sure Bronn is not leering at them in the darkness, Brienne pushes Jaime roughly by the shoulders onto his back, then straddles him under the draped woolen.  He exhales happily, as she guides him inside.  Her horsewoman's skills inform her, as she swiftly finds a slow and rolling gait for their coupling.  
  
"Oh yes....." grunts Jaime, completely oblivious to the small sticks and stones digging into his laterals and buttocks.  
  


 

****************

 

 

He can hear them -- the rustle of the dead leaves, the shifting of the tiny pebbles that cover the ground, the muted murmurings capped by a name cried into the nightsky.  Bronn hunches his shoulders, wishing he could stop his ears, missing Lenah all the more.

The Lannister's words on the trail have left him cold.  Up to that point, some superstitious part of him had held that if the thought were never given voice, Lenah would not be raped by her captors.  Now the possibility, nay, likelihood, haunts him.  He has one small hope.  If that "privilege" is reserved for the Bolton Bastard, these foot soldiers may not dare to touch her.  _But how long can a pack of animals hold itself at bay?_

Bronn resolves to be back on their trail before sunrise.

 

 

  
  
  
  



	13. Chapter Thirteen

"No way of telling," mutters Bronn, disgustedly kicking the sodden ashes of the campfire.  It is late morning, and they have finally come across evidence of those they pursue.  _Curse the Gods for the wee hours' rain!_ It has neatly obliterated any subtle way to judge how far ahead they may be.  The sellsword takes this to be Locke's second night's campsite, calculating that the party spent the first night on the overland route between the Rosby Road and the Kingsroad.  Still, he feels part-blinded in his pursuit.  The sullen skies mirror his mood, as he whistles the signal to mount up.    
  
As the day progresses the ground gradually dries out, the moisture finding its way back into the air, creating humidity.  The clouds remain low, unsettled, adding to Bronn's sense of foreboding and urgency.  Every hour sees all three off their horses to scour the dirt for indentations.  Finally in late afternoon, they begin to discern clear tracks -- the first chance to estimate their enemies' numbers.  Hobart's initial accounting of six appears to be short of the truth; there are nine horses leaving hoof prints in the clay.  When the trio comes upon a still fresh pile of manure, Bronn draws them off the trail to hide their mounts.  They will cover the last distance on foot, hoping to ambush Locke and his men in the unguarded ebb at the end of a long ride.    
  
  
**********************  
  
  
Brienne sees him first -- a boy of not more than three-and-ten, left to guard the horses.  His entire attention is on the bowl of indeterminate stew between his knees.  She knows she should just be done with it -- slit his throat, silence him.  The last time she stayed her hand, it cost Jaime his.  Yet she cannot do it.  He is just a skinny child in oversize clothing.   
  
Bursting from the underbrush, Brienne grabs him from behind, clamping her large hand over his mouth, sending his precious supper into the mud.  
  
"I can break your neck as easily as I would a twig," she hisses in his ear.  The lad is slight in her arms, offering no resistance.  She can see his wild eyes above her knuckles.  "We've come for Lady Lenah," she growls.  "We have no quarrel with you."  The boy trembles in terror.    
  
"Come," Brienne commands unnecessarily, dragging him like a rag doll to the rope line that tethers the beasts.  "Unloose them," she instructs.  "Quietly!"  One by one, he unwraps their reins, and the hungry horses begin to wander off in search of greener groundcover.    
  
Drawing her dagger for effect, Brienne warns the boy darkly, "If you promise not to shout, I will let you go.  Just run.  If you make a _sound,_ I can cut you down before you take ten steps."  But it is too late.  At the snick of the blade leaving its sheath, the burden in Brienne's embrace has gone limp, fainted away in fear.  
  
Gently, she lowers him to the ground, praying the Seven that he will sleep through the battle.  
  
  


******************

 

Slipping under the rising cloud deck, the sun makes its first and final appearance of the day, bathing the western sky in shades of blood and fire.  On the ground, the bloodbath is no less intense.  Swords sing, men cry out, the air reeks with the smells of dirt and death.

The first two foes, caught unawares, have gone to their gods with throats slit.  After that, the element of surprise was lost.  Now, confusion reigns, with Bolton men running in from different directions, shouting and cursing. 

In a frenzy of battle lust, Bronn takes on dual attackers -- darting, blocking, swinging, thrusting.  Sweat turns his hair to ringlets.  His arms begin to ache from the jolts of double blows, yet he feels impervious to pain.  With his countenance a grim mask of death, he locks swords at the hilt with one blade, then twists to throw him into his brother-at-arms, thereby gaining a free moment to gauge his surroundings.  Finding himself quartered back to the campfire, Bronn employs his sword tip to fling a cauldron of hot gravy meat at the face of the nearest man, immediately using the distraction to step in and hack the arm off the other.  Spinning back, he presses his advantage against his scalded rival, driving him into the bushes, where their fight continues.

Meanwhile, Jaime and Brienne have their own opponents to overcome.  In the first true test using his left hand, Jaime finds again the sweet rhythm he once knew.  Instinct rising to the occasion, he dances across the ground after his quarry -- feinting left, then right, advancing and retreating, toying with the man to assess his style.  Once they engage, their swords kiss only half a dozen times before Jaime opens the fighter's belly.  Quickly, he turns to the sound of Briene's duel, but he is not needed.  His lady warrior is ruthless in her attack, beautiful and deadly, as she expertly dispatches a brute of a man larger than herself.

Suddenly all is quiet, save for the ring of steel off to the right.  Scanning the clearing rapidly for their ultimate prey, the two spot him at the same time.  With his back to a hedgerow, Locke is using Lenah as a shield.  One forearm is around her waist, lifting her roughly off the ground.  The other is pressed hard between her breasts, to hold a knife against the artery below her ear.

"Fancy meeting you two again," Bolton's chief guardsman says softly, conversationally.

Brienne and Jaime both hold their battle stance, swords aloft, wary, not moving.  Jaime notes that now the air is deadly still.  Time, he must buy time.

"We brought your sapphires," he suggests in silken tones, straining his hearing beyond his focal point.  His vision in one direction is blocked by the oak against which the prisoner was obviously tied. 

Locke's  dead eyes show no emotion.  "Do you take me for twice a fool?" he asks mildly, his chill calm more threatening than the edge he wields.  "This one is some sort of wolf.  Neither of your houses will pay real gold for her."  He digs his fingers deeper into Lenah's ribs, eliciting a wince of pain.  "But Lord Bolton will."

Striving to control his face as well as the flicker of his gaze, Jaime returns hastily, "Only if she's alive."  Brienne glances at him, having noted the same things he has. 

Locke smiles mirthlessly.  "Nevertheless, I will cut her like a pig unless you both throw down your swords and let me ride away with her."  He scrapes the knifepoint almost lovingly along Lenah's jawline, raising a faint trail of pink. 

Behind Locke and his captive, the bushes part slowly.  No one speaks, as Jaime lets the seconds stretch into one another for as long as he dares.  Then he gives an imperceptible nod of his head.  "Do it, Brienne!" he barks, and the two drop their weapons as noisily as they can.

At the same moment, Bronn emerges completely from the hedge.  "Hey, Locke!" he calls out, as he whips his arm with wicked precision.  "Here's your knife back."

The blade finds its mark deep at the base of the Bolton man's spine.  Lenah twists away with a muted gasp, as Locke falls twitching to the ground.  Dagger drawn, Brienne leaps between them, protecting the smaller woman with her person. 

"I think you mean 'knife ** _in_** the back' ," quips Jaime, stepping forward.  He looks down without pity at the half-paralysed thing at his feet.  "And here's my score settled."  His greatsword descends its arc, severing bone from bone, flesh from flesh, leaving Locke minus a hand.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," whispers Jaime, as Locke's eyes roll back in his head and the blood loss takes its final toll.

 

 


	14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ignoring the carnage that once was Locke, Bronn covers the distance rapidly, eyes for only one thing.  The lady warrior helps Lenah to her feet, then, with a deferential dip of the head, withdraws along with her golden knight.  
  
Sweeping his vision over Lenah from head to toe, the sellsword searches for signs of injury.  Her hair is tangled and frizzy.  Her loose flannel shift is filthy.  On her feet, she wears the boots from some corpse -- sloppy, half-laced, tongues lolling.  He finds her apparel oddly inadequate, until he recalls that she was abducted while bathing.  But most importantly, he finds no blood.  
  
Grasping her gently by the shoulders, Bronn queries, "Are you hurt?"  A clench of the teeth, a rough whisper past the unfamiliar obstruction in his throat.  "Did they touch you?"  
  
Lenah shakes her head, her voice small.  "No."  
  
Bronn holds her gaze along with his own breath.  _Can she be telling the truth?  Or is memory playing her false out of kindness?_  
  
"No," Lenah says again, more strongly.  "They all lived in fear of the Bolton Bastard.  I was to be delivered intact."  Her eyes slip away for a moment, hiding dark memories.  "Instead, they amused themselves with foul japes............and crude threats of what he would do with me."  
  
Pulling her into his arms, Bronn murmurs, "Words are wind.  You're safe now."  His lips descend upon hers, as he envelops her with his body.  He starts as tentatively as he can, not knowing if there is a new emotional and physical barrier in place.  However, his worries soon melt away, as she responds readily.  The earthy scents of blood, sweat, and fears mingle with their passion.  When they part long moments later, Lenah blinks in mild surprise, pointing out the obvious.   
  
"I see you brought more than one sword to the battle."  
  
The mercenary veteran of too many combats shrugs matter-of-factly.  "It happens, when a man's blood is up for killing."   
  
The woman pressed against him is silent for a minute, studying his scratched and splattered face.  Then she speaks three words, eyes serious and smouldering.  "Fuck me, Bronn."  
  
_By all the gods, what a temptation!  Every warrior's wish!_ "You don't want that," he protests brusquely.  _Don't suggest it again........_  
  
"Fuck me, Bronn."  
  
His entire body tenses.  "It won't be pretty," he warns.  His voice drops.  "And it won't be gentle."  
  
Lenah responds by locking her fingers behind his neck.   
  
In a manic onslaught of motion, Bronn hoists her hips off the ground to wrap her legs around his waist, staggering against the nearby tree, pinning her with his torso.  Breath ragged, he rips open his laces, freeing himself, while his other hand fumbles to find her sweetness.  Parting her with fingers rough and insistent, he forces his way inside, past her coarse nest and her moist threshold.  Half a dozen violent thrusts later he is finished, the sword between his loins as gloriously sated as his blade on the battlefield.  Still breathing heavily, he lowers her to the ground, sliding her slowly off his cock.  
  
"Nothin' like a woman after a fight," he drawls over the top of her head, almost to himself, as his waning hardness slips out.  
  
Lenah snorts.  "So happy I could be of service," she comments with dry humour, adjusting her clothing.  
  
Bronn looks down at her saucy grin.  "Oh Lenah...."  He shakes his head, smiling in hopeless, happy recognition of the sardonic wit that can infuriate him so.  _Sounds like the same cheeky wench to me_ , he thinks in relief.  
  
"Ahem."  
  
The sound intrudes from behind Bronn's left shoulder.  Hastily, he tucks himself back together, as Lenah lowers her head in a smirk.  Crossing the clearing are the Lannister and his woman, leading their three horses.  The lady warrior cradles something in her arms.  Bronn turns to face them, as Lenah steps forward, stopping to locate and pull on a boot she seems to have lost.  
  
"I owe the lot of you my life," she says simply, including the sellsword in her collective gaze.  "Mere thanks are not enough, but they are all I have to give."  
  
_Not **all**_ , thinks Bronn, with a leer meant mainly for Jaime's benefit.  He places a hand possessively against her neck, while Lenah ignores him.  
  
"Your gratitude is more than sufficient, Lady Greystark," says Jaime gallantly.  "My companion and I had our own history with Locke to answer."  He dips his blond-fringed countenance in greeting.  "Jaime, of House Lannister."  
  
Lenah grows still, focusing for the first time on the white cloak and the golden hand.  There is no doubt the name means something to her.  After a string of moments, Brienne moves into the void before things become awkward, offering up her pile of cloth.  
  
"I found you some clothes, my lady.  If it does not pain you too much to wear the clothing of one of your captors."  
  
Lenah takes in both fair knights with her eyes.  "Please.......call me by my birthname.  We have many miles to travel -- and few secrets left to keep, it would seem."  She casts a somewhat self-conscious side glance at Bronn.  He gives a careless shrug.  
  
Nodding gravely, the warrior from the Sapphire Isle accepts.  "Agreed.  I am Brienne."  
  
"Of Tarth," supplies Jaime blithely.  "No longer a maid."  He feels in fine comedic form, jocular after their victory.  The pained look Brienne cuts his direction is just like old times.   
  
"Well met, Brienne......and Jaime...."  Lenah's eyebrows ask the Lannister for permission to use his birthname as well. 

He responds with a courtly, left-handed bow.  "Lenah."  
  
Behind Lenah's back, Bronn rolls his eyes.  _Highborn twat._  
  
Still smiling at the first lion she's ever met, Lenah reaches out to take the bundle of cotton and wool from her female champion.  
  
"He looked to be no more than a page," Brienne says sadly.   
  
"I know the one," Lenah recalls with equal sadness.  "He was kind to me.  I am sorry he was slain."  
  
Remembering the boy's fear and wishing to elevate his memory, Brienne reveals,"I believe he turned his cloak for you in the end."  She knows she found him far from where she'd left him.  Rather than run, he'd obviously tried to creep up on one of his compatriots, to his demise.  "He did not call the alarm when he might have.  He died at the hand of a Bolton soldier, not one of us."  
  
Sighing, Lenah turns to Bronn, using him as a clothes tree for the second piece, as she pulls the first over her head.  The sweater is strained beyond its usual capacity, the men cannot help but notice, even allowing for the fact that she wears it over the flannel gown.  Kicking off her boots, she steps into the felt breeches next, thankful for the extra layers come nightfall.  "You don't happen to have some soap, do you?" she asks Brienne in a helpless jest.  
  
"I do, my......Lenah," returns Brienne, lowering her voice as she feels the first stirrings of a female bond.  The two women smile at one another.   
  
Moving to his mount's side, Jaime suggests, "There was a springfed stream a long mile back.  We could make camp there."  
  
Bronn's blue eyes meet Jaime's dark ones in unspoken gratitude.  All take to their horses, with the sellsword leaving his saddle behind to accommodate two more comfortably on the beast's back.  As they wheel through the Bolton camp one last time, looking for salvage, Bronn has an idea.  Spurring his horse towards a row of flags, he frees a massive cloth banner on its pike.  Tucking it under his arm, he rides for the river without looking back.  
  
  
  



	15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter of smutfluff. Thank goodness Brienne brought the soap.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

 

In and out, here and there, blinking and fading -- their tiny bright bodies dot the air along the streambed.  Awakened by the moisture that hangs in the dusk, a colony of fireflies lights his path.  Clad only in his breeches, Bronn makes his way downhill to the watercourse, eager to find Lenah now that his preparations back at camp are finished.  He grins as he pictures the night ahead.

Eventually, the sound of splashing reaches his ears.  His footsteps slow, and his grin threatens to affix itself permanently to his face.  A short ways upstream Lenah is bathing, unaware of this approach.  Indulging his male tendency to voyeurism, Bronn does not immediately announce his presence.  _Much rather watch for a bit_ , he decides lasciviously, thankful for a shallow stream that only rises as high as Lenah's navel.

As his vision locks on she is lathering her long hair, raising her arms above her shoulders, affording him a fine view of her naked torso.  He is delighted to see that with each scrubbing effort, her assets bounce tautly.  Taking her time, she slowly washes her neck and arms next, cupping up liquid to rinse as she goes.  With the lack of light hampering his eyes, Bronn can only imagine stray rivulets finding their way down her front, dripping off her large, brown nipples.  By the time she runs her soapy palms over her heavy breasts, he is harder than The Wall on a winter's day.  When her hand slips below the surface, cleansing between her legs, he has seen enough.  Swiftly, he doffs his trousers and pads towards the water's edge, silent as a panther.  Lenah, bent at the waist to flush out her mass of waves, does not hear him until the last minute. 

"Might I borrow the soap?" Bronn asks with conversational politeness, as he wades into the shallows.  At his height, the water barely reaches the tops of his strong thighs.

Pushing her wet locks back from her forehead, Lenah opens her eyes, drinking him in, in silence.  With a sly smile and an underhanded toss, she sends the broken bar of lye in his direction.  His sharp eyes and quick reflexes pluck the white chunk from the murky air. 

"I see the water is not too cold for you," she observes archly, glancing down with lips pursed.

Wordless, Bronn begins to slide suds across skin, starting with his floating tumescence.  He handles himself with a sure confidence that Lenah finds compelling -- stroking his length thoroughly, daring her with his eyes to take over.  She watches appreciatively, as he works slowly up his lean body, regarding her boldly the whole while.  Meantimes, Lenah draws sensual liquid circles in the stream with the flats of her hands.  Biceps flexing, the sellsword washes his head last, strong fingers taking a circuitous route across his crown to the nape of his neck.  When he is finished, he tosses the lyecake carelessly to the shore, then floats onto his back, leaving a flotilla of bubbles in his wake.  Like a merman, he twists forward in the water, ducking below the surface, then rising to stand before her.  He reaches for her waist, but Lenah holds herself slightly away to look into his face. 

"Why, Bronn?" she asks softly.  "Why did you come after me?"  Her voice is almost sad.  "My father has no more gold to give you."

Long moments pass, while a variety of answers, from flip to false, flash through his mind.  Finally the words leave his lips gruffly, but nonetheless true.  "Some things are more precious than gold."  _Fine sentiment for a sellsword_ , he chastises himself wryly.  Lenah's mouth parts and her eyes grow wide, but she says nothing.  _Kiss her, all I want to do is kiss her._

Forging ahead to fill the growing silence, Bronn declares with a twinge of defiance, "I'll have some business with His Lardship when we return, though."  Lenah tilts her chin in attention, encouraging him to continue.  He cannot keep the bandy-legged pride from his demeanor.  "The Imp raised me up, gave me lands.  I'm a true knight now."  Lenah can almost see his bare chest swell.  "And I'll claim the hand of the old man's daughter in marriage.........if she'll have me," he adds, almost too offhandedly. 

Lenah drops her dark head, shaking it.  "Oh, Sellsword," she murmurs with a small smile.  Bronn feels a sudden strange constriction under his breastbone.  _She's going to turn me away,_ he thinks, ready to revert to life as the same solitary, cynical man he's always been.

Then she looks into his eyes.  "I would have had you with or without a title, or a keep."  Pushing herself against him, she punctuates her words with an intimate caress.  "Just Bronn is all the man I need."  Releasing an inward sigh, the sellsword covers her mouth with his.   

Entwined in the gathering darkness, they kiss deeply -- sealing a promise, prolonging a seduction, swelling their passion.  Faces offset -- first at one angle, then another -- their lips never part for long.  They fill their senses with the taste and scent of one another.  Sweet, succulent sounds and quiet reverberating voicings tickle their ears and throats.  Roaming fingertips explore his angled planes and her compact curves.  Bronn is acutely aware of her stiff nipples pinpointing the skin below his ribcage, as well as his rigid member trapped painfully and awkwardly against Lenah's hipbone.  Breaking away, he murmurs, a tease in his tone, "Come.  I have something to show you."

Lenah's small hand finds him once again.  "This I've seen before," she reminds him coquettishly, claiming him from balls to cocktip.

Teeth flashing opaque in the rising moonlight, Bronn grins.  "Besides that," he promises, sending up a small burst of water as he smacks her bottom to start her towards the shoreline.

 

 *********************

 

 

 

"Ouch!"

As they pick their barefoot way slowly back up the slope to the campsite, Lenah is assaulting her long locks with the wide-toothed comb that appeared, as if by magic, from the pocket of her reclaimed pants.  The ill-fated page's woolen she retains as well, but her flannel shift has found its final resting place beside the stream.  

"Ouch!" she says again, dragging at the strands at the nape of her neck.

Bronn regards her with amusement.  "Looks like torture...." he teases mildly.

Lenah continues, resolute.  "If I don't do this now, by morning I'll have birds setting up housekeeping."  The humidity is already markedly enhancing her hair's volume.

Chuckling at the mental picture, Bronn asks curiously, "Who had the comb?  The big lass again?"  He reckons he has guessed aright. 

Lenah shakes her tangled head.  "Jaime actually."  She moves her ministrations to the opposite side, halfway finished.

Bronn raises an eyebrow in surprise, then nods once.  "Aye, he has the hair for it" -- is his tongue-in-cheek comment.  _Hair most wenches would be proud of_ , he thinks in derision.

Lenah expels a delicate guffaw, understanding perfectly the implied insult.  After a few minutes, she offers the grooming tool to the sellsword, who eyes her with suspicion.

"You'll not be turnin' me into a proper lord," he warns, though he takes it from her hand and makes a few practised  passes over his scalp, suddenly aware of his own receding forelock.

Lenah grins evilly.  "I wouldn't dream of it," she purrs, wrapping her arm around his waist and slipping under his bicep.  "I want you just as improper as you've always been."

"I can fairly guarantee that," Bronn remarks with his usual verbal swagger, while planting a kiss atop her damp head.  They top the rise, joined hip to thigh.

Confronted with their campsite, Lenah stops in her tracks, as Bronn looks eagerly for her reaction.  "Very clever, Sellsword," she compliments after a moment's study, her face juggling a tumbler's troupe of happy emotions.

The castle-massive Bolton banner has been carefully cut from its flagpole.  Two forked willow roots support each end of the wooden dowel, across which the cloth fanfare is draped, anchored along the ground edges by heavy rocks.  The effect is that of a short, open-ended tent, not tall enough for standing, but adequate for privacy.

"A trick I learned from a Dornishman I used to ride with," Bronn supplies in uncharacteristic modesty, rather than taking credit for himself. 

Consternation quickly follows, when Lenah replies with a knowing nod, "Yes, those Dornishmen **_do_** know a trick or two."  _I have a trick or two of my own to show you,_ he promises silently.

In a last nod to chivalry, Bronn offers indifferently, "I have oaten cakes and cheese.  Are you hungry?"  _I'd rather fill your belly with my seed._

Turning to face him, Lenah reaches out for the center of his waistband, pulling him close.  "Only for you," she murmurs seductively, her breath hot between his pectorals.  They kiss again, with Lenah palm-stroking the taut muscles of his back, Bronn slipping both hands inside her breeches to caress the delicious swell of her bottom.  When they finally break for air, Lenah guides his ear to her lips, tickling him from deep in her throat.  "Your kisses leave me wet and wanton, Ser Bronn."

"Just the way I like you, Lady Lenah," he rumbles against her neck, as he eases the sweater over her head.  Hand in hand, they crouch to enter their makeshift shelter.

Once inside, they drop to their knees.  Bronn pushes her onto her back atop the bedroll, busying both his hands and his lips.  Their hunger for one another is powerful, Lenah's perhaps moreso than his, having not yet had release.  Her sighs and moans fill the canvas space, as Bronn's mouth finds every sensitive spot on her upper body -- nibbling her earlobes, nuzzling her neck and shoulders, tonguing circles in the hollow of her throat, sucking her plump and pliant nipples.  Ignoring his throbbing cock for the time being, he tastes his way down as far as her navel.  There he pauses.  Loosening the drawstring at her waist, he leans back on bent legs to pull the clothing from her lower limbs.

_Gods **indeed** be good _! he thinks, feeling almost reverential at the sight of the delights before him.  Sliding backwards, he slowly plants his ravenous kisses down the inside of first one leg, then up the other.  Lenah is nearly beside herself, beyond thought, clutching the top of her thrown back head in desire and anticipation.  Gently, Bronn jackknifes her legs to either side of his shoulders, opening her sweetest spot to his inspection.  Parting the curly mass that conceals her, he applies the flat of his soft tongue to her swollen lips.

 

 

 

********************

 

 

 

She wouldn't have thought it possible.

The mere memory brings a flush to her face and a warmth to her belly.  Hugging her knees beside their campfire, Brienne gazes into the gathering gloom, smiling.  Beside her, Jaime is snoring softly, content in his dreams after an eventful day and an equally ambitious evening.

She wouldn't have guessed it could be done.

Before the first firefly winked on the evening wind, Jaime had taken her by the hand and led her to their own bend in the stream.  Sharing the now-halved soapcake, they had languidly and lovingly bathed each other, enjoying a sense of discovery undershot with a sense of memory.  Their lean fighter's bodies were a perfect pairing -- mouth to mouth, breast to breast, hip to hip.  Their slick skin had come together in a slow, sensual orgy of suds -- fulfilling a fantasy that began in the bathhouse of a blackened castle beside the God's Eye. 

"I was so hard for you that day," Jaime had confessed to her earlobe, inbetween nibbles.  "Under the water."  There had been no need for him to specify which day he meant.  They had both known.

Groaning delicately, Brienne had whispered back, "You seemed a god to me -- a golden god."  Yet no god in a sept had ever inspired such passion within her.

She would never have imagined a way.

The truth of their feelings and the remembrance of lust's first stirrings had fueled an unbearable heat between them.  Not once in her life had Brienne known such burning hunger.  Cradling her face and claiming her lips with his, Jaime had declared in a voice not to be denied, "I need to be inside you.  **_Now_**."

Head tipped back as his hands played over her body, Brienne had rasped out one word.  "How.....?"

Jaime had answered her question by firmly cupping her asscheeks and pulling her legs wide.  Dipping his hips, he'd manhandled his unwieldy member upwards and thrust into her aching sheath.  Her cry of surprise and satisfaction had roused a flutter of waterbirds from the reeds.

Full beyond reason, Brienne had remained locked in Jaime's embrace for what could have been hours -- kissing until their puckered faces mirrored their swollen genitals.  A shallow circle-dance of the hips had been all the movement they could make, a barely perceptible grind that banked a slow burn.  Release had come to both from deep within, pulsing across two bodies become one.

And so it _could_ be done -- coupling while standing.  This new world of physical delights is full of fascination.  Though not naturally curious, Brienne cannot help but wonder what other intimate joys she has yet to discover.

Turning to her lover, she leans down, gently brushing aside the curtain of his hair to touch her lips to his scarred cheekbone.  Jaime murmurs happily without waking.  Rising quietly, Brienne fetches a blanket and covers him where he lies.

Wide awake with her thoughts, Brienne rightly deduces that she will be the one standing the first watch.  Though the road is certainly safer without Locke and his band afield, there are still brigands and outlaws prowling the byways.  Lifting her head, she lends her senses to the darkling spaces around the camp.  All is silent.

Her next thought is for warmth, and the small safety of a little light.  Shifting back and forth from the pile of deadfall she laid up, Brienne carefully stokes their campfire for the hours ahead.  Some yards away, she sees that the firepit outside the sellsword's pitiful tent has nearly gone out from neglect.  Being the caretaker that she is, Brienne dutifully gathers an armload of dry branches and walks over to feed those flames as well. 

Here the silence is not so complete.  She studiously keeps her back to the canvas shelter, ignoring the feet that overshoot the threshold and the soft sounds that escape the walls.  As she stirs the embers, a sudden feminine cry pierces the air.

Her instincts make her turn to look.  What she sees makes her blush.


	16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Many thanks to the awesome [Lady_Blade_WarAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Blade_WarAngel/pseuds/Lady_Blade_WarAngel) for creating this visual context for the story!

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

 

"Bronn lost your soap."  Lenah's eyes sparkle mischievously as she devours an oaten cake.  Beside her, the sellsword's mouth compresses in annoyance at her attempt to stir up trouble.

Brienne is not happy.  "Never trust a sellsword with anything," she grumbles, casting a pointed look at Jaime.  "Their promises are worthless."  The four are gathered around the one well-banked fire that lasted the night, breaking their fast late on a languid morning.  With no reaction from her Lannister, the lady warrior turns to glare at Bronn.

Lids lazy, blue eyes unconcerned, he admits amiably, "I lost track of it somewhere on the shore."  He pops a wild berry into his mouth, smacking his lips noisily just to pique her.

Smirking, Jaime takes a wild guess from behind the wineskin as he drinks.  "Too busy fucking, I'll wager."  He tries to catch Brienne's eye with a memory of their own bathing acrobatics, but she studiously avoids his glance.

Bronn juts out his chin with an air of importance.  " **Not** fucking.....we were having an important conversation."  _I'll have me a highborn wife, I will_ , he congratulates himself in smug silence. 

"Of course you were," drawls Jaime pleasantly.  "An important conversation about who was going to be on top -- first."

Lenah snorts.  Bronn winks at Jaime.  Brienne turns a rosy shade of red.  Disconcerted, the erstwhile Maid of Tarth lumbers to her feet and announces to all and none, "I'll go pack up." 

Watching her stomp away, Bronn chides Jaime, "Now you've gone and embarrassed your lady.  Best run off and make amends like a good pup."  Sporting a wicked grin, he reaches for the bag of Arbor Gold.  Jaime rolls his eyes, but does soon rise and saunter in Brienne's direction.

Chuckling, Bronn turns to his own lady, only to find her embracing her knees, features knit, lost in thought.

"A copper......." he suggests, idly working his tongue after an errant raspberry seed stuck in a molar.

Lenah faces him -- tone a bit pragmatic, gaze a bit accusing.  "Now that you've lost her soap, Lady Brienne is not like to lend me any moon tea.....assuming she has some."

Stretching out to recline on an elbow, Bronn shrugs dismissively.  "You don't need that."  He takes another quaff from the wine bladder, then busies himself thumbing the sand from the neck before corking it.

"I don't."  Lenah's words, evenly delivered, are more a statement of disbelief than a question.  "You're going to spill your seed on my belly every time between here and King's Landing?" she asks sweetly.

 _A little late for that._   "Nope.  I'm going to put my seed right where it belongs."  Bronn draws out the last quartet with an assured smile.  "I plan to put a baby in you as soon and as often as possible."  He looks quite pleased with himself at the prospect.

Lenah's eyes flash.  " I am not your brood mare, Bronn."  After an angry pause and a frustrated heavenward glance, she reluctantly allows him a lord's due.  "I'll give you an heir.  And then I'm finished."

 _Gods, she's bull-headed!_   Perturbed, the sellsword insists, "An heir.  And a spare."

Gaze waffling, Lenah tips her head from side to side, a sign of her inner debate.  Finally she acquiesces, though her annoyance shows.  "Agreed.  A spare."

"And any little girls that happen inbetween,"  Bronn presses his point, inching closer.  "Though if they're like their mother, they'll be more trouble than they're worth," he adds with a wink.  Lenah tries not to smile, but fails.

Pulling her down beneath him, Bronn declares intimately, "There won't be enough moon tea in all the Vale, to keep those babies from coming."  Lenah's body rises in response to his, as his thigh pushes between her legs.  "Because I intend to fuck you every night, and probably every morning."

Their kissing is soft and sensual, casual yet continuous, neither in a hurry to find an end.  When Bronn grunts and begins to roll against her in earnest, Lenah snakes a hand between them to squeeze him through his laces. 

"And what do you intend right now, my lusty sellsword?"  she queries, her voice like silk.  "Seeing as it's nearly midday?"

A thought does come to mind.  Lenah has toyed with him before in this fashion, but never finished him.  "Did your Yunkish handmaid ever teach you how to well and truly blow a man?" he asks with a bold and hopeful gleam in his eye.  Hell, even the most clumsy whore in Gulltown could suck a man's cock.  _But a proper blow job is something to savor._

Drawing him gently by the nape to tickle his ear with her lips, Lenah whispers, "Is that your desire?  A public cocksuck?"  Bronn answers with a groan and a grind of the hips. 

"Then that's the last thing you'll get right now," she retorts playfully, twisting away with a laugh.  "I'll save that for when you least expect it," she promises as she jumps to her feet, leaving him. 

Dumbstruck, Bronn watches her shapely backside saunter away, whilst willing his wide-awake manhood back to sleep.

 _More trouble than she's worth,_   he fumes silently.

 

 

**********************

 

  
_The horse is like to be happier,_ muses Bronn.  _Even if I am a little lonely._

  
It is late afternoon, and Lenah has changed places to ride with Brienne -- a way to break up the conversation and spare any one mount the double burden for the whole journey back.  On the Kingsguard pony, Bronn has been carrying Lenah in front of him, sitting bareback, without the weight of the saddle.  This is kindest for the equine over long distances.  _And right cozy for the riders, as well,_ he thinks with an inward grin and a memory of his hand slipping under Lenah's sweater.

With Brienne, Lenah must perch behind the saddle and find a handhold wherever she can.  The lady warrior's broad-backed destrier is certainly the sturdier animal, though the wide seat on the horse's rump cannot promise to be comfortable for a compact person, even one as flexible as Lenah.  Her considered decision to travel sideways rather than astraddle was met by approval on his part.  Bronn wouldn't want to see the delicate muscles she uses to open her legs grow fatigued.  A happy smirk animates his face at this chain of thought.

After a time, Jaime pulls alongside on his magnificent stallion.  Bronn's mood briefly sours.  He has no intention of encouraging Lenah to ride with the Lannister for any portion of the trip.  The Kingslayer is touted to be the most handsome man in Seven Kingdoms, with or without all his appendages.  Bronn fails to see it.  _But Lenah might,_ he reminds himself.

Casting a guarded eye at his travelling companion, the sellsword grudgingly remarks, "I know the two of you covered last night's watches."  He won't quite voice a word of thanks, but between two proud men, he does not need to; the sentiment is understood.

Jaime glances over, as Bronn looks away in studied nonchalance.  "From the sound of things, the two of _you_ were a bit busy," he observes tartly, though not with particular rancor.

"Aye," says Bronn, harboring a secret smile.  "She's a moaner, that one."  He likes to think he gives her good cause.

Jaime musters a wry smile of his own.  "Oh......I seem to recall hearing your voice once or twice."

Bronn nods honestly, not bothering to downplay a thing.  "Best fucking I've ever known," he admits expansively.

Jaime's face closes in contemplation.  "Speaking of that....." he begins carefully.  Bronn meets his gaze with interest.  The Lannister looks away, on the verge of discomfiture.  "My lady Brienne expresses some........curiosity....after glimpsing you with your head between your lady's thighs."

The sellsword's eyes crinkle with amusement and he rolls his tongue into his cheek before replying.  " 'Tis a pleasure or a chore, depending on the man."

Jaime's eyebrows rise and fall, acknowledging the statement and its tone.  "It is a pleasure for you, I take it."

"And for my lady," Bronn answers quickly, confidently.

Sharp memories darken the Lannister's countenance.  "Cers...." -- he amends his words -- "...my previous partner....disdained the act," he reveals quietly.  Hesitating, he clearly finds his next thoughts difficult to voice.  Finally he clips off the question.  "Can you advise me?"

"Aye, that I can," Bronn assures him, twitching the reins to nudge his mount closer, almost conspiratorial.  "I was schooled by a whore in Maidenpool.  Those skills have never let me down," he brags with a broad wink.  The pun is far from lost.

 _Can't fault the Lannister for this_ ,  he reflects with practical approval.  _A man with only one hand is smart to learn some new skills for the bedchamber._

 

 

  
_*************************_

 

 

Lenah is lost in a daydream.

 

It is difficult for the recently rescued noblewoman to concentrate on anything other than the knight who saved her.  Her future without his intervention is something she resolutely pushes from her mind.  Her future _with_ his involvement is a much more pleasant consideration.  Closing her eyes, she finds a far-off glimpse of their life at Copper Keep, complete with family.  Though she would rather not be tied down by a litter, she understands Bronn's need to give his name to a legacy -- something he never knew.  To her vision, Lenah quickly adds a nursery matron to care for the whelps.

In time, she becomes aware of the big lass twisting periodically in the saddle, turning her head as though she might share a word.  "Is aught amiss, Brienne?" Lenah asks, a bit chagrined by her poor performance as a conversational companion.

Serious as ever, Brienne puckers her brow, something Lenah does not need to see to glean the gravity of the lady warrior's mood.  "You said -- 'many miles and few secrets' -- did you not?"

"I did," affirms Lenah, after a moment to recall context.  What might come next is a mystery.  She feels Brienne's wide shoulders heave with a small sigh.

"Forgive me, Lady Lenah," the taller woman apologizes formally.  "Having a confidant is not something I am accustomed to."

Lenah's heart immediately goes out to this daughter of nobility who travels her own path, friendless though it must be.  "Brienne," she says kindly.  "I owe you my life.  Keeping your confidence is but a small part of that debt."

The back of the blond head nods, as Lenah shifts her numb buttocks and adjusts her grip on the back of Brienne's swordbelt.  Eventually the words come, haltingly.  "I have recently....found myself....in a physical way...with a man."

From her place behind, Lenah breaks the news, gently incredulous at Brienne's attempted circumspection.  "It is no secret, the man of whom you speak."

"Fair enough."  The two women roll with the horse's gait through a long pause before Brienne continues.  "I have little.....nay...NO experience in these matters."  Clip-clop, clip-clop.  "How do I know if I please him?"

Lenah nearly laughs aloud.  "If he comes back for more, rest assured, he likes what he's getting," she declares flippantly. 

But Brienne does not seem convinced.  "I fear I may not be what he is accustomed to," she confesses, her allusion plain enough.

Lenah's retort is quick, her logic unassailable.  "Don't you think that's why he's with you, and not the other?"  The turn of phrase strikes her, bringing forth a silent chuckle.  Probably not the first time the Queen has been likened to the ancient enemy beyond the Wall.

Sighing, Lenah softens her tone.  "All men are vain," she confides with world-weary wisdom.  "Their little minds love to think that their big cocks send us into wild throes of ecstasy."  Brienne's eyes widen in startled amusement.  "Most don't even mind if we only pretend," Lenah concludes, shaking her head.  She lets these truths sink in, then decrees, "If your passion is no sham, you have him.  Is this so?"

The question hangs in the air until the lady warrior briefly turns her pink-tinged face to her rider.  "It is," she admits, sensual memories flooding her mind, informing her answer.

The smaller woman smiles.  "Then you are secure."  Brienne swivels back to face the trail, as Lenah expounds.  "Now if you want to playact in silks and lace, I encourage it.  Role-playing can enhance lust -- greatly."  She would wink if the two ladies were facing one another.  "Do whatever your heart.....and your cunt" -- she inserts prosaically -- "tell you.  Just leave your head out of it."

Brienne consider this advice for long minutes, then asks, "Is it so for you and Ser Bronn?  Is your passion pure?"

Lenah's features twist around the wry truth that forms in her mind.  "The bedchamber will never be our challenge," she answers, a bit wistful.

"What will?" returns Brienne curiously.

Lenah's voice is quietly resigned in the realization.""Our hearts will dance around each other for as long as we are together, and never name what we feel."  Her green eyes glow resolutely.  "But we will feel it nonetheless."

   


	17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  
  
  
The village is a little dusty, the central street less than teeming.  The shingles that mark the various shops and merchants are a tad faded.  But at least they still hang over doorways left standing.  Centuries ago, when the Kingsroad  cut its path ten miles to the west, the once prosperous community was doomed to stagnation.  Yet that same isolation also spared it the vagaries of various wars.  Now, as the western backing buildings throw shadows across their path, three horses with four riders trot into town.  The man in grey and black drops back to where two women ride tandem.  
  
"Sapphire Knight."  
  
"I'm not a knight," Brienne mutters wearily.  She looks his way, and Bronn tosses her a coin.   
  
"Buy yourself some soap."  
  
Brienne eyes him suspiciously, not certain whether this is a veiled insult.  
  
"Don't get your swordbelt in a twist," he assures her.  "Just payin' a debt."  _Been hanging around too many Lannisters,_ he thinks wryly.   
  
She turns the metal disc in her fingers to see the strikeface, then looks up, startled.  "This is much more than I need."  
  
Bronn winks at Lenah, while speaking to Brienne.  "Buy the short one some proper wench garb while you're out."  He's tired of seeing her in dirt-and-blood-stained boy's clothes.  "Something tight, preferably."  _Something I can rip off._ He grins. _  
  
_ From behind Brienne's back, Lenah smiles with her eyes, while giving a long, slow suck to her index finger.  Bronn's grin droops a bit, even as other areas threaten to take a decided upwards turn.  _When you least expect it,_ he recalls.  
  
"We'll be at the inn, seeing about rooms," he informs them gruffly, spurring his horse towards the Sign of the Vine.  
  
  
*******************  
  
  
"Two rooms, aye."  The portly proprietor plunks down an ale in front of each of them.  "Top o' the stairs.  Four coppers."  
  
"Three rooms."  Jaime flashes his eyes warningly at the sellsword.  He is unfortunately quite recognizable now, with his fine golden hand.  It wouldn't do for the next visiting Lannister soldiers to hear a tale of the night the Kingslayer shared a room with the Maid of Tarth.   
  
Wiping the excess brew from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, Bronn chuckles.  "Oh sorry.  I thought you were sleeping in the stable."  His eyes dance, while Jaime's gaze throws daggers.   
  
The innkeep shrugs.  "Three then.  Six coppers."  He holds out his hand.  
  
"I'm Kingsguard, you know," Jaime informs the man, annoyed.  "Lord Commander, actually."  He hadn't grown up in the wealthiest family in the Seven Kingdoms without learning how to strike a bargain. Or expect his due.  
  
"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord."  The purveyor of hospitality apologizes, yet stands his ground stubbornly.  "And your companions?"  He turns to Bronn.  
  
In the middle of another satisfying draught, the sellsword slams his tankard to the table angrily.  Yanking his purse from his belt, he dumps some number of coins into his hand.  Plucking the ones he wants, he tosses those to the floor.  "Here's three, and be grateful you still have your hand," he threatens darkly.  The man scurries off after his rolling payment.  
  
Jaime drinks deeply, then eyes his companion in amusement.  "Not exactly a master of diplomacy, are you?"  
  
Bronn snorts.  "I hear your family shits gold," he retorts.  "Would it have killed you to piss a few coppers?"  
  
"Sounds painful," the Lannister replies, giving a good-natured grimace.   
  
In the next instant, there is a small commotion at the door.  Jaime has the line of sight over Bronn's shoulder and gives a slight jerk of his chin, one battle wary fighter to another.  Bronn turns his chairback to the wall, and both men eye the group entering.  After a few moments, it becomes clear they are only local labourers, unarmed, come to slake their thirst at the end of the day.  Bronn relaxes and does the same, planting his boots wide and tipping his shoulders against the timbers behind him.   
  
Two more pints appear promptly in response to a golden wave, and in their wake come the women.  The other patrons grow quiet at the sight of the imposing lady in armour.  A muttered oath is heard.  Brienne regards their table with steely disdain, and the foursome return, cowed, to their game of skins.  With a restrained smile of greeting for Jaime and a curt nod for Bronn, she pulls a chair from a nearby roundtop and sits.  
  
Meanwhile, the front legs of the sellsword's perch hit the floor with a distinct thunk.   
  
"Aye.......that's more like it," he crows in approval, as Lenah turns slowly.  He casts his eyes over her with undisguised intentions -- from the daring cut of the black leather bodice with its straining laces, to the soft drape of the deep green skirt over her inviting hips.  _Now there's a costume I can find my way into,_ he tells himself enthusiastically.  Patting his thigh, he reaches for her wrist, pulling her inside his legs to sit on his lap.   
  
Lenah laughs delightedly and snakes her arms around his neck.  "Pace yourself, Sellsword," she teases him.  
  
With nothing to hide from the world, Bronn turns his rapt attention to loosening the weave across her cleavage.  Then he tips his head to the side in one moment of wickedly feigned empathy at his companions' uncomfortable circumspection, before burying his face in the valley of her bosom.  Lenah closes her eyes, breathing deeply, running sensual fingers through the waves at the nape of his neck.  Neither notice when Jaime and Brienne move to another table on the other side of the room and order a meal.  
  
Left in their own dimly lit corner with no one paying them any mind, the two lovers share nuzzles and kisses inbetween swallows of ale, until both are slightly intoxicated in more ways than one.  Eyes glittering with lust, Bronn toys with the hem of her skirt, then slides his hand underneath and slowly up her leg.  Lenah bites the corner of her lip as his fingers find her.   
  
"I've been thinking of your fine hard cock all day," she whispers in his ear, not at all a lie.  
  
"I can tell," he murmurs, sliding a knuckle repeatedly past her moist swollen lips, while she squirms against his palm.  Then, incongruously, she slaps his arm away.  
  
Bronn's grip around her waist tightens.  "I've had enough cock-teasing for one day, Lenah."  The growl in his voice is as much of a warning as the flash from beneath his brows.  
  
"Poor sellsword," she says with a sly smile, standing and placing a lingering kiss on his mouth before stepping a leg over each of his thighs to straddle him.   
  
"Oh ho!" he rumbles in delight, aroused even more by her boldness.  "That's better!"  Under the concealing folds of her garment, he runs rough hands around her curves and inside her limbs, thumbing her soft, wet center.  
  
"Take out your weapon, Ser Bronn," Lenah breathes softly.   
  
Blue orbs blazing, Bronn slides forward in the chair, loosing his laces, opening the gusset of his breeches.  Lenah reaches a hand between them to lend her aid, lowering herself atop his mansteel as he pulls her cheeks wide to gain maximum penetration.   
  
"So what have you heard about the pillow houses of Yunkai?" she asks sweetly, grinding her hips in a circle.  
  
"Something about a Seat of Seven Sighs," he returns vaguely, a bit distracted.  
  
"Consider yourself seated, ser," Lenah says wickedly, suddenly ceasing all movement.  In the next second, Bronn's eyes roll back in his head and a small gasp ambushes his lungs, as her cuntwalls squeeze him firmly.   
  
"Did you like that?" she purrs when he releases his air.  
  
"Again," he grunts happily.  The sensation is intense, surprising, unlike any fisting he's ever received -- or given himself.  
  
Lenah kisses him deeply, completely in control of his body in this moment.  "Look into my eyes," she commands.  He is helpless to do anything else.  "I can finish you just like this, without moving another muscle."  Bronn can only nod, mute.  
  
Lost in a sea of green and blue, their gazes lock, swimming sensual depths.  The pulses grip his shaft in random rhythm, heightening his need.  In her sage-coloured depths he reads primal promises, forbidden desires -- sending his brain on a separate erotic journey from the one taken by his body.  His breath finds escape with each new caress of her irises, each unexpected embrace of his cock.  When the ultimate moment arrives, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, surging again and again until his mind and body are equally empty.  Lenah leans forward and drops her weight into the V between his thighs, pushing her pleasure point against his pubic bone, triggering her own release.   
  
  
  
  



	18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Finally," says Jaime softly, cupping her face.  "I have you alone."    
  
He kisses her hungrily, leaning in, careful to avoid the bump of metal on metal.  Bracing her palms on his breastplate, Brienne meets his mouth with equal fervor.  The certain knowledge of their companions' quiet tryst in the corner has spurred the lion and his lady to their room, eager for their own intimate end to the day.  The other couple they've left on the first floor, looking entirely too pleased with themselves as they prepared to share a big slice of pigeon pie.  
  
Reaching behind Brienne's back, Jaime searches blindly for the door handle, eyes closed to better savor the tastes on his tongue.  With a delicate grunt, Brienne pushes him away, imploring almost shyly, "Allow me a minute."  Her sapphire gaze holds him in place, as she slips her saddlebag from her shoulder to carry it in front through the portal.  
  
Stepping back with a grin, Jaime falls into pleasant imaginings of what she might have in store.  He ticks off the seconds in his mind, first curious, then growing more and more impatient at the sound of mysterious thuds and rustlings inside.  Eventually he raps lightly on the heavy panel.  
  
"Are you ready?"  
  
"Another minute," comes the reply.  Jaime doesn't know whether to be annoyed or intrigued.  With a sigh, he reaches to his shoulder, unbuckling himself out of his golden platemail.  
  
"You may enter," a soft voice beckons him finally.  
  
Boots in hand, upper body armour tucked in the crook of his elbow, Jaime invades the room.  He drops it all with a clatter when he sees Brienne.    
  
Tall and stately, she is a vision in silk, torchlight playing softly across her face.  The cornflower blue of the gown is a perfect match for her wide eyes, a cerulean offset for the tanned skin of her long limbs.  The hemline falls somewhere above her knees, concealing just enough, while the fabric leaves little to the imagination.  He can see the shape of her high, round breasts, the peaks made by her taut nipples, a hint of the downy mass at the V of her pelvis.  Jaime sucks in his breath, at a loss for words.      
  
"I thought you might find this more to your liking," Brienne says uncertainly, shifting her weight, ready to turn away in confusion at his silence.  
  
Her meaning is not lost.  "Once," he admits finally, his voice deep with wasted years.  "Then I learned that a silken purse cannot disguise a foul heart."  
  
"Or a sow's ear," whispers Brienne bitterly, knowing full well the names men call her.  
  
The hurt in her words unfetters his feet.  Jaime rushes across the room to pull her into his arms.  Gripping her cheek with his lone hand, he pushes his growing hardness against her hip.    
  
"Make no mistake, my sweet lady," he promises gruffly.  "You are beautiful in silk."  He feels her body relax into his.  He continues, murmuring along her neck, "You are equally beautiful in boiled leather and wool."  Brienne smiles at that, relaxing even more.  Forehead to forehead, he captures her gaze. "Yet you do not need to do this," he says gently.  "Your beauty is clear to me without any adornments."  Brienne cannot mask the sigh of relief that leaves her lungs.    
  
She kisses him, softly at first, in gratitude, but then in rising passion.  Eventually Jaime pulls away to impart with hushed finality, "And you are _most_ beautiful in nothing at all," -- as he slips each strap off her shoulders. He eases the silken sheath down her body, past the places where it clings, as though he is unwrapping a gift.  His eyes drink in her nakedness.  Pointing with his chin towards the bed, he advises, "Best make yourself comfortable."  
  
Jaime shrugs out of his clothes in prize-winning time, lastly leaving behind his metal appendage.  Brienne has no abhorrence for where his arm ends, and it has only proven awkward in the past to have more than one hard thing between them during lovemaking.  He joins her on the mattress to the sound of mutual utterances of  pleasure.  
  
Brienne's soft skin trembles beneath his lips, like silk billowing in the breeze.  Supporting himself with his short arm, Jaime flicks his tongue across the points of her breasts, whilst tracing tender fingers down the hollow of her body, almost to her mound.  His mouth follows his touch, slowly pressing a pursed path, coaxing a deep-voiced moan from her throat.    
  
"O, Kingslayer...." Brienne breathes, cradling his crown in her elegant hands until his head is out of reach.  Gently he eases her legs over his shoulderblades, tormenting her swollen jewel with the heat of near-kisses.  Turning away from her center, he leaves his mark on the insides of her thighs, sucking the sensitive flesh in a trail of delicate love-bites.  Her lean hips rise rhythmically to his ministrations of pain/pleasure, and her voicings grow louder.  When at last he samples her blond glory, Brienne can only groan, "Oh Gods..."   
  
A lingering lick of the lips, a teasing tickle with the tongue, the barest breath across her bush -- Jaime is beyond intoxicated.  He writhes a bit against the roughspun bedclothes, the chafing giving some measure of relief to his rock-hard member.  The scent of her, the taste of her, now the feel of her as he inserts two fingers into her moist warmth.....Suddenly, Brienne cries out, and he feels her pulses begin.  
  
"Inside me.  Now!" his warrior woman commands thickly, and Jaime does not need to be told twice.  Bracing his hand on her hip, he rears up as Brienne guides him to her threshold with feverish fingers.  Bucking like a stallion, he pushes himself through her explosion, with Brienne wrapping her legs around him and gripping his buttocks, then groaning as a second, more powerful wave washes over her.  His own explosion falls somewhere between hers, burst after grunting burst, until they are both utterly spent.       
  
  
  
  
  



	19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

"It seems the builders of this inn did not use the thickest of timbers," observes Lenah archly, as she and Bronn turn the corner off the top of the staircase.  The hallway before them offers an exit at the far end, and four facing doorways, two on each side, with torchlight emanating from underneath three.  The sounds escaping from under the door of the nearest room along with that glow, cause the couple to share a smirk.  
  
Trailing Lenah to the room at the farthest point down the passageway, Bronn glances back over his shoulder in lascivious approval.  _Sounds like the Lannister took my advice_.  Grinning, he reminds himself to jape with Jaime on the morrow about how much the big lass appreciated his 'handiwork'.  _Or mouthwork, really._   As the big-toothed key clunks in the latch, he cannot decide which pun he likes better.  
  
Throwing her arms wide, Lenah floats to the bed and flops down akimbo, raising a faint complaint from the frame.  "Look!  A big.... ...soft....mattress!" she exults, beyond thankful after too many nights on the ground.  She sighs happily, then rolls onto hip and elbow, catching Bronn's eye in the flickering shadows.  "We best make good use of it," she suggests, her sweet voice a thin coating for her wicked thoughts.  
  
A throaty chuckle leaves his mouth.  "That can be arranged," he drawls, declaring party to her sentiment with a lewd look.  _I'll have your hips bouncing off the bed_ , he promises silently.   
  
His clothing forms a pile on the floorboards, as Lenah slips out of her new costume.  Bronn is not at all above stealing a glance at her naked form, as she bends to turn down the bedding.  He joins her eagerly, stretching out with a blissful exhalation.  Dark head resting on the hands clasped behind his neck, his face is a mask of contentment.  
  
"I won't soon forget that business in the common room," he remarks to the ceiling after a moment's pause.   
  
Twisting onto her side, Lenah traces a finger along the underside of his bicep, sending pleasant flutterings of warmth to the base of this spine.  "You liked that, did you?"  
  
The sellsword's eyebrows twitch contemplatively.  "Not sure 'like' is the right word," he muses lazily into the evening air.  "Might need a stronger one....."   
  
_Seven Sighs indeed!  I must have sighed seven-and-seventy times!_ His cock stirs in memory.    
  
He glances down as Lenah adjusts the coverlet demurely across their waists.  "Must I teach you the Common Tongue, Sellsword?" she mocks him teasingly.  "We have another word -- love."  There is the smallest of pauses -- _for emphasis?  for regrouping?  for no reason at all?_   Then she rushes in with more words.   
  
"I know," she says quickly, before the previous utterance takes hold.  "Not a word that comes easily to your lips."  She falls back onto her pillow, seemingly casual.  "Or mine."  Her eyelids close, ready for sleep.  
  
_By the Warrior's balls, what am I to say now?_   Bronn holds his tongue, his thoughts aswirl.  There is no denying the wench understands him.  Is even like him, in some ways.  She doesn't fear him, disdain him, or judge him, for the life he's led.  She may be bull-headed and infuriating, but she makes no real demands on him -- other than those in the bedchamber, where he is more than happy to oblige.  Whatever label he might choose, the truth is plain enough.  Lenah's place in his life is like no other.   
  
Finally the long moments of silence are broken by the squeak of the bedjoints, as Bronn shifts his weight.  Using his knee to part her thighs, he presses his torso against hers and frames her face with his forearms.   
  
"I truly 'like' you, Lenah," he murmurs gravely, gravity somewhat belied by the roguish twinkle in his gaze.  _Talked my way through the back door, I did_ , he congratulates himself.  
  
Lenah's eyes and lips respond warmly.  "And I truly 'like' you, Bronn," she whispers in perfect understanding.   


 

They share a kiss, soft and searching, melding to something more hungry.  With Lenah's fingers tightening in the small of his back and her legs opening for him, Bronn rolls atop her once again.

 

 

***************************

  
    
Whistling a dirty Dornish ditty, Bronn springs down the outside staircase.  Morning dew glistens on the overgrown weeds beside the inn; daylight struggles to pierce the lingering overnight clouds.  He fills his lungs with the crisp air, noting the shift in the breeze.  A southron wind should push back the rain, at least until they reach Kings Landing on the morrow.  
  
Of the foursome, he reckons he is the first out of bed.  There had been nothing stirring inside the door of the Lannister's room when he checked.  Lenah he had left sleeping deeply, after a fitful nocturne.  The nightmare that had haunted her in the darkness had been a stark reminder of the unnamed fears that she faced in the Bolton camp.  Bronn had held her close, whispering over and over that she was safe in his arms, kissing away the terrors her captors had planted in her mind.  The coupling that followed was slow and tender, unlike the frenzied fucking or the playful passion of the past.  _Some might even  name it love-making_.  The thought startles him, but he lets it pass.   
  
Pausing on the bottom step, Bronn breathes deeply once more, feeling unduly refreshed.  In the yard outside the stable, he finds a well pump poised over a trough.  Meant for the livestock, undoubtedly, but the sellsword is neither shy nor fastidious.  Levering the handle repeatedly until the water flows, he splashes his face and neck.  Then, with a quick glance to left and right, he looses his breeches.  The cold wash is bracing, to say the least, but also welcome -- soothing his chafed skin, rinsing his sticky balls.  
  
Thus invigorated, he continues on to the stable.  There he spends some goodly time tending to the horses -- changing their water, offering a light meal of oats, mucking out the straw.  Jaime's stallion and Brienne's destrier are side by side near the entrance; Bronn's borrowed pony is segregated a few slots away, eyeing the Lannister's mount with ill humour.  The two studs had proven to be less compatible than their riders over the miles.  Bronn rather likes the feisty equine with the humble pedigree -- reminds him of himself.  When he reaches that stall, he has an extra scratch for the silky brown forelock.  
  
He has just turned to transfer his bedroll from its spot draped over the half-wall to the pony's hindquarters, when the sound of light footfalls reaches his ears.  The swinging door cracks open.   
  
"Good morrow, sweet lady."  His blue eyes take her in with amusement.  Barefoot, tresses tousled, clothes wrinkled, shoes in hand -- Lenah looks as though she's just gotten out of bed.  _Looks like she was well-used while she was there, too._ His aching jewels can attest to that.   
  
Dropping her footwear, Lenah pretends to pout.  "I missed your Sword of the Morning."  Her gaze travels over his body, lingering with interest on the drying splashes of water that darken the front of his breeches.   
  
Bronn grins.  "You were sleeping so peacefully," he explains solicitously.  "Besides, truth be told, ah'm a bit sore."  The face he makes is almost comical, as he briefly takes his eyes off of her to cinch down his gear.       
  
The next thing he knows, Lenah is close at his elbow.  "Poor sellsword," she murmurs, looking down.  "I hear that malady can be cured with kisses."  Slowly, relentlessly, she maneuvers him backwards with her body, while beginning to undo his laces.  His shoulders hit the support post in the corner at the same time his breathing quickens.  After pulling his startled face down to hers for a deep meeting of the mouths, Lenah sinks to her knees in the soft stable bedding, then jerks his roughspuns halfway down his hips to expose him fully.   
  
The shock of the cooler air is nothing compared to the surprise of her palm cupping his sacks, her fingertips stroking the smooth skin behind.  In less than a minute, he is hanging heavy and swollen, with Lenah nibbling her way down from his navel.  Grasping him around the base, she licks a line up his shaft and under the rim of his cockhelm.  He watches avidly, as she purses her lips to place the promised kisses along his length.  When she starts to swirl her tongue around his tip, Bronn cannot help but groan.   
  
It is at that moment that his peripheral vision spies Jaime and Brienne entering the barn.   
  
"What are you doing in the corner, Sellsword?  Taking a nap?"  Jaime glances over in curiosity as he saddles his horse.  Brienne, doing the same, looks a little longer, noting Bronn's tense face and glittering downward gaze.  All that can be seen is his head above the side of the stall.  
  
"Where is Lenah?" asks Brienne suspiciously.  "There was no answer at your door."  
  
"Oh....she's nearby," Bronn answers vaguely, encasing Lenah's skull in his hands as she closes around him in a soft circle.  His head drops back and he shutters his eyes, losing himself in the feel of her warm, wet mouth sliding up and down his cock.  The way she braces herself by clutching his thigh right below his asscheek only enhances the erotic intimacy.  When she starts to hum and adds the firm squeeze of her small hand around the portion she cannot take in, he must grit his teeth to keep from moaning aloud.   
  
Intent on adjusting the last of his saddlestraps, Jaime calls over his shoulder, "We're leaving now.  Are you coming?"  
  
"Aye," answers Bronn without much thought.  "Any second now."  
  
Jaime's head whips around and a huge grins splits his face.  "Need some help with your gear?" he offers wickedly, adding a new distraction to Bronn's predicament.   
  
"No!" the sellsword barks back frantically, voice strained.  "No, just LEAVE!"  He digs his fingers into Lenah's scalp, guiding her, increasing her tempo.  
  
With a loud guffaw and a directed nod, the Lannister points his lady warrior towards the door, and they both depart, leading their mounts.  Brienne lags behind to send one last perplexed peek over her shoulder.   
  
No sooner does silence descend upon the stable, than it is lifted again by a masculine rumble.  Incoherent thoughts scatter across Bronn's mind, incoherent sounds leave his throat, as he loses all control, still wrapped by Lenah's lips.  His seed spurts from his body, only to be swallowed into hers.  He is blissfully aware of her sucking every last drop from him, then rising to her feet, wiping the corner of her mouth with her fingertip.  
  
"When you least expect it," she whispers in parting, bringing his own taste back to his lips with hers, before leaving him limp and beyond sated.  
  
"Wicked wench," breathes Bronn softly.  _Wicked, wonderful wench._  
  
 


	20. CHAPTER TWENTY

Short legs landing in an angry staccato, Tyrion travels the echoing hallway back to his rooms, another tedious small council meeting behind him.  Another day in the paradise of my sister's making, he thinks with grim humour.  Cersei has been increasingly venomous towards him of late, maintaining only the thinnest veneer of civility with him in the presence of their father.  And Jaime.  She doesn't dare to disrespect him in front of Jaime.  But it is clear, she would like nothing better than to see him hurt and disgraced, if not dead.   
  
The room door gives a satisfying crash as he slams it shut .  He shouts for his squire, then recalls he gave the lad the afternoon free.  "Fine, I can pour my own wine," the dwarf mutters, plodding to the sideboard and filling a goblet.  He tosses back half the contents in one gulp, then crosses the carpet towards the wide glass panels that open onto the terrace and the stepped gardens beyond.  Just inside the threshold he stops, stubby fingers pressed against the pane.  He is not alone.   
  
The lanky man in black and grey reclines on Tyrion's finest lounging couch.  On his lap is a raven-haired wench, dangling a bunch of grapes above his head.  He tilts his mouth up and snatches one with his teeth, as the woman laughs.  She plucks another fruit from the cluster and teasingly puts it between her breasts, shown to perfection by the scoop-necked blouse she wears.  Her admirer dives in slowly for the sweet morsel, whilst cupping one round globe and running the ball of his thumb over her nipple through the thin fabric.  Once he has his prize, the woman pulls back his head by the hair to kiss his mouth, sharing the grape.  Then she nuzzles the back of his neck, as the man lands a gentle bite on the swell of her bosom.  
  
Pushing open the doors and striding brusquely across the recently rain-washed flagstones, Tyrion interrupts the tryst with his presence.  "You're back," he observes unnecessarily, helping himself to his own grapes from his own bowl.  "Successful, I see."  Lenah jumps to her feet, managing to look properly startled, but Bronn remains cheerfully unperturbed.   
  
"Who pissed in _your_ wine?  I've seen hound dogs that look happier than you," the sellsword admonishes his dour friend, as he turns to the pedestal round beside him.  With a liberal hand, he tops off his and Lenah's cups from the fluted flagon they've liberated from the Imp's cupboard.   
  
Tyrion sighs.  "I  must endure a week of festivities, culminating in the wedding of my nephew.  What could be happier?" he says with chipper exaggeration, as he again pours for himself.  His brow knits.  "How did you get in, by the way?"  
  
Bronn waves vaguely towards the balustrade overlooking the squares and squares of cultivated greenery, inadvertently spooking a scavenger magpie intent on stealing a grape.  "Climbed up through the gardens," he reveals matter-of-factly.  "Not sure the lady should be seen by certain people in the Red Keep."  Despite the free-flowing vintage, the two lovers exchange a sober glance.   
  
"Forgive my poor manners," Tyrion implores belatedly, dipping his shaggy head in Lenah's direction.  "This must be the Lady Greystark."  His mood brightens, rising to the social occasion.  "Bronn has not lied about your charms, I see.  Yet he could  never do justice to your beauty."  Setting aside his wineglass, he gives a smart bow.   
  
The object of his courtesy sweeps her skirt to one side with a slight dip.  "These male lions are all very gallant," observes Lenah, smiling and offering her hand.  "And each more handsome than the last."  
  
Now Tyrion truly _is_ charmed.  No one has ever suggested that he might be more handsome than the golden son.  He takes her fingers in his and brushes his lips across her knuckles, while Bronn looks on with frowning attention.   
  
"No worries.  We won't be staying in the city long," the sellsword interjects before Tyrion can exercise any more gallantry, or Lenah any more charm.   
  
The dwarf turns his eyes to his friend.  "I know you are both eager to be on your way," he allows.  "But I'd advise you to wait a few days."  Bronn sits forward, elbows on knees, listening.  Lenah reaches for her wine, sipping slowly, contemplatively.  Tyrion continues.  "At the moment, all roads within 100 miles in any direction are clogged with people travelling **_towards_** King's Landing for the royal nuptials.  The two of you riding in the opposite direction will stand out like sore thumbs."  The sellsword nods, as Tyrion looks to Lady Lenah.  "I'm sure your captors are naught but a feast for crows now, but there could be others."  
  
"Aye," says Bronn, sitting up straight.  "I can see the sense in that."  After a pause, he reaches out and pulls Lenah back onto his lap.  "So what will we do with you in the meantime?" he asks, the jaunty lilt in his voice covering the worry.  "As much as I might like to quarter you in my rooms, that could draw notice."  
  
"More notice than you visiting her chambers every night?" taunts Tyrion wryly.  With a shrug of the eyebrows, Bronn rolls his tongue across the inside of his cheek, foreswearing nothing.   
  
"I'd be very quiet," promises Lenah, batting her eyes at Bronn innocently.   
  
"No you wouldn't," he retorts with evil certainty, and they share an intimate smile as she tips the rim of her cup to his lips.  
  
Fighting an urge to vomit, Tyrion instead rolls his eyes and waits until he regains the couple's attention.  "A never-before-seen noblewoman who suddenly appears at court is sure to be noticed," he muses, shaking his head.  "Especially if she's fu-..." -- an apologetic sliding glance to Lenah -- "....entertaining... a recently up-jumped sellsword."  He sends Bronn a friendly mocking grin and receives back a withering stare.  "No, as lovely as you are, my lady, it is best for Lenah Greystark to disappear."  
  
"How you going to manage that?" challenges Bronn dubiously.  "You a conjurer now?"  
  
Tyrion lets out a ruminative breath.  "Hmmmmmm.......how to hide a wolf in a lion's den...."  He thinks a moment; then it comes to him -- in plain sight.  He eyes Lenah with hopeful speculation.  
  
"How are your skills in the kitchen, my lady?"  
  
****************************  
  
A fan of glossy black and brilliant white on the wing, a flash of blue-green plumage in the sunlight -- the thieving magpie soars down the terraces.  Using his elegant length of tail as a rudder, he banks to a landing beside a blueberry bush.  His large, intelligent eye takes in the tall creature watching him from the pathway, as he struts closer to the low-hanging fruits.  Mimicking the four-legged  hunters that are his enemies, he gives a mewing cry.  Then he snatches a purple berry and flies off gracefully.  
  
Brienne chuckles, enjoying the bird's antics.  She has missed her walks in the royal gardens and the solitude they afford.  Rarely does she meet anyone on the vast maze of footpaths, save for her feathered friends and the occasional well-fed castle cat.  
  
Hands clasped behind her back, the lady warrior strolls freely, for once unencumbered by a knight's gear.  The gentler garb she wears feels unfamiliar, the layers of indigo and blue-grey padding leaving her with a faint feeling of vulnerability.  Choosing the fabric had been a challenge, but not the colour.  She had made sure she specified blue to the seamstress.  Jaime likes her in blue.  
  
Eventually her rambling leads her into a section flanked on both sides by fragrant lavender-flowered shrubs.  The wall of blossoms beckons her, and her footsteps slow to allow the heady scent to fill her nostrils.  Closing her eyes to the present, Brienne drinks deeply of the air -- the taste an invocation of a childhood memory, taking her back to Evenfall Hall and the lilacs that ringed her play yard.  Preoccupied, she turns a blind corner, only to bite back a curse when she sees she is about to have an encounter on the trail.   
  
"Lady Brienne."  
  
"Your Grace."  
  
Accompanied by two towering guards, faceless behind their steel helms, Cersei sashays to a stop.  Every panel of her silk gown shimmers, every jewel in her belt gleams.  Her green eyes flash with feline sport.  Her lips part in a patronizing smile.   
  
"We hadn't seen you for a few days.  I thought you might have gone home to Tarth."  She makes it sound more like a royal edict than an idle idea.  
  
"No, Your Grace," Brienne answers with forced ease.  "I had business outside the city."  
  
Cersei's smile takes on an edge.  "And what business brings you _back_ to the city?"  
  
"I" -- Brienne swallows, her mouth suddenly dry -- "I've been training swordplay with...one of the squires."  
  
  
"Which one of the squires -- precisely?"  Cersei's tone is sweet, but her eyes are hard.  
  
"Podrick Payne," Brienne lies, praying the Seven the boy will have the blind sense to corroborate her story, if asked before she has a chance to coach him.  
  
A beat passes, with the Queen staring down the truth of Brienne's words.  "What a pity you are so detained," Cersei says then.  "I imagine Lord Selwyn would welcome the homecoming of his only child."  
  
Brienne dips her eyes, avoiding direct agreement.  "My father is a good man, Your Grace.  He has loved me always.  But I am not the daughter he expected."  She glances back up when the wistful truth slips out.  "In truth, he never quite knew what to make of me."  
  
"And neither do I."  Cersei laces her final remark with faint menace, as she and her guards brush past peremptorily.  
  



	21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  
  
Twin shafts of pale sunlight pierce the gloom, entering through the barred windows near the ceiling.  They spotlight a rusted mace here, a morningstar minus half its spikes there.  They pick out a collection of battleaxes with broken handles, a shattered lance or two, a mis-weighted warhammer.  In the beams' fringes can be glimpsed dozens of swords of various types lining the walls or propped in the corners.  Closer inspection would show them all to be bent, gouged, dull beyond a whetstone's honing.  The retired armory is a forgotten place in a lonely corner of the keep, quiet as a tomb -- the tomb of spent weaponry.    
  
The sudden loud thunk of the iron bar on the opening door nearly sends Brienne jumping out of her skin.  A white-cloaked figure slips into the room, closing the portal behind him.  
  
"Now what can be so urgent?" queries Jaime, a tease in his voice, a grin parting his square jaw.  "Do you pine for my touch already?"  
  
Brienne can only stare at him, dumbfounded by his masculine arrogance.  
  
Jaime glances around the four walls.  "Interesting place for a tryst," he deems dryly.  "Not without a certain allegorical appropriateness."  His thumbs go to his waistband.  "Shall I unsheathe my weapon to stand alongside these?"  
  
"It's the middle of the afternoon," protests Brienne dismissively.  
  
He takes a step closer, reaching for her.  "My cock can't tell time."  
  
Brienne slaps his hand away so vehemently she comes near to breaking his wrist.  
  
"Jaime, please!"  she counters, her tone tinged with desperation.  "This is serious!"  
  
Opening his arms in a gesture of surrender, Jaime backs away.  "Tell me."  
  
After a moment, a worried sigh settles in Brienne's breast.  "The Queen wonders what keeps me in the capital."  Unconsciously she clenches her sword hand, though she wears no sword.  
  
"She confronted you."  Jaime raises one concerned eyebrow, misliking what he is hearing.  Attracting  Cersei's attention can never be good for either of them now.  
  
Brienne nods.  "In her velvet-mail-fisted way."  
  
Wincing, Jaime asks, "What did you tell her?"  
  
The blue saucers of Brienne's eyes meet his gaze.  He does not need full light to sense the uncertainty that swims there.  His guileless swordwench is surely no match for his conniving sister in the game of words.    
  
"I told her I was giving sparring lessons -- to Podrick Payne," reveals Brienne, diffident yet stubborn in her story.  
  
"That can be arranged," promises Jaime quickly, relieved she's come up with such a plausible alibi.  Covering the distance between them in one long stride, he pulls Brienne into his arms, his touch meant to be a reassurance.  "We'll make sure you're seen crossing tourney swords with the lad, instruct him to backstop the timeline of it....."  He feels almost as confident as he sounds.  "It will play."  Tipping her downcast face to his with two gentle fingers under the chin, he kisses her softly.  "It will play."  
  
Soon the comfort they find in each other's embrace gains heat and momentum, becoming more passionate than peaceful.  With Brienne combing her hands through his locks, Jaime breaks away to suggest gruffly, "You know we _could_....."  
  
"What?" Brienne pulls back to eye him suspiciously.   "Would you have me bent over, braced against the wall?"  
  
Jaime shrugs, all lustful innocence.  "Well, since you suggest it....."  
  
In the end, the former Maid of Tarth doesn't take nearly as much persuasion as he might have thought.  
  
*************************  
  
"You want me to lie to the Queen."  Podrick puckers his square face in uncertainty.  The squire has returned from his off time to a welcome almost as enthusiastic as the one he'd received on the Street of Silk.  Lord Tyrion's brother and the tall lady knight had pounced on him as soon as he came through the door of his master's chambers, inundating him with the details of the script they have planned.  His hesitation is dismissed by a shake of the Kingslayer's head.  
  
 "I _want_ you," Jaime answers now, in his clipped, overly patient voice, " **if** she asks, to tell her the truth we've all agreed upon."    
  
"And it won't be a lie," interjects Tyrion cheerfully.  "I'll be needing a new trained sword by my side."  He gestures towards the woman beside him.  "Lady Brienne here will indeed school you in the warrior's arts.  You need only remember that your first lesson was three weeks ago."  
  
The brown-haired lad nods slowly, a grin beginning to claim his face.  "When _is_ my first lesson?"  
  
"Right now," decides Jaime brusquely, taking to his feet from his perch on the table's edge.  Shooing the sparring pair with his ornate new hand, he urges, "Off to the practice yard with you both.  Make sure half the Kingsguard sees you."  He and Brienne share a long look, before she departs with her charge.  
  
A companionable silence descends on the brothers.  As one, they gravitate to the terrace, there to sip wine in the setting sun.  
  
"Thank you."  Jaime's quiet words hang in the still air.  The fiery light leaves his features soft, his hair burnished to a golden glow.  
  
Waving off the thanks, Tyrion observes flippantly, "Our sweet sister could occupy herself for _weeks_ trying to ferret out our paramours."  
  
Or months, thinks Jaime defeatedly.  Or years.  "Is Shae safe?"  he asks suddenly, with a sidelong glance.    
  
"For the time being," his brother replies, studying the contents of his goblet.  "Cersei hasn't found her."  
  
"Yet."  Another glance, longer this time.  "She's looking, you know.""  
  
Tyrion gives a brooding nod, then brightens, changing the subject.  "Brienne of Tarth," he marvels, raising his glass.  "Not exactly what one would expect of you.  Still, it's always best to keep people guessing."  After a pause that sees no reaction from Jaime other than a warning stare over the rim of his wineglass, the dwarf drops the jocularity.  "Does she make you happy?" he queries softly, somewhat wistfully.  
  
"A well-honed knife makes me happy," Jaime dryly draws the distinction.  A slow smile creeps across his features.  "Brienne makes me......better."  
  
Long moments of silence slip away with the sun's rays, as the siblings reflect upon matters of the heart.  In time, it is Jaime's turn to switch the subject matter.  
  
"And what of your heartless sellsword?  Is he growing soft in his old age?"  
  
Tyrion snorts into his wine.  "Rather the opposite, I gather," he returns wryly.  "She seems to...answer a need in him."  For once he is not trying to be lewd, yet he cannot deny the pun.  "Besides the obvious."  
  
"Will he hurt her?" muses Jaime after a moment, hoping the answer is no.  "That one seems to have been hurt in life quite a bit."  
  
As have we all, adds Tyrion mutely.  By way of answer, he flips up an open palm and shrugs an eyebrow.  "So has Bronn, I'll wager."  He sighs with finality.  "That pairing may very well last longer than either of ours are fated to."  
  



	22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"To King Joffrey!"  
  
The many-throated shout echoes down the long tables -- bouncing off the rafters, filling the raucous room with even more noise and its occupants with yet another excuse to tip their tankards.  Trenchers, aswim with watery stew, clatter haphazardly when the empty ale pewters bang down beside them.  Loud voices call for refills, as serving wenches move amongst the crowded rows.  Pouring begins at the head table, where the Lord Commander has deigned this night to dine with the Kingsguard and other armed men of the castle.  And one armed woman -- though she can clearly fight, and eat, like a man.  
  
Many of the kitchen maids are just that -- merchant's daughters from Kings Landing, pressed into service, young and timid.  A few are more seasoned, easily returning the high-spirited banter of the knights, expertly fending off any roaming hands.   
  
Fleshy cheeks flushed, Ser Meryn Trant watches the women with cruel dark eyes.  Through the din and smoke, his vision alights on a never-before-seen figure, all curls and cleavage, delivering a bread basket to a nearby trestle.   
  
"Now there's one who's more than a girl," he announces loudly and lasciviously to the men around him.  "I'll wager _she_ knows a thing or two about getting a man's baguette to rise...."  
  
Bronn, sitting beside him, gives Ser Meryn a poisonous look, which the pompous, white-draped Kingsguard fails to notice.  _Every time he opens his mouth, I want to murder him,_ the sellsword bristles for the hundredth time.  He has no doubt the day will come, when he lets blood all over that ridiculous pristine cloak.  The prospect brings an anticipatory smirk to Bronn's weathered face, and he downs the last of his brew to toast the thought.  Then suddenly, Lenah is coming their way with a pitcher and a sly smile.  Slipping between the two, she leans forward to pour for the far side of the table.   
  
SMACK!!  Ser Meryn slaps her skirted bottom with more malice than playfulness.  Startled but not entirely displeased, Lenah turns to her right first, thinking the cheeky attention has come from Bronn, only to find the sellsword already clapping the brutish knight's wrist in a vise grip.  
  
"Do that again and lose the hand."  
  
Swiveling her head back and forth over each shoulder, Lenah watches the seething face-off behind her.  With the great hall's cacophony swirling around them, the two men wordlessly measure their long-standing itch to do battle -- Bronn exuding a touch of sass, Trant reeking of ego.  Eventually Ser Meryn relents, relaxing his arm.   
  
"Now that I see her up close, she's nothing more than a dried up old kitchen tart," he says contemptuously, turning away as Bronn releases his wrist with a final jerk.   
  
_Not over yet.  Not over by half._   Bronn sends his parting shot silently, but no less the deadly, as Lenah takes and releases a deep breath.  Snaking an elbow around her waist, Bronn pulls her into his lap, using the opportunity to lay claim before any of the other men get it in their minds to take liberties.  
  
"Oh milord!" giggles Lenah gaily, playing her role for all to hear, as he nuzzles the swell of her bodice.  "I am _far_ from dried up right now," she whispers for him alone.  
  
With his arm hooked around her hip, Bronn inches her closer, snug atop his laces, imaging what it would be like to take her the way a stallion mounts a mare, right there in front of the entire hall.  His voice turns to gravel against her neck.  
  
"Which is your room?  I'll visit you later."  Lenah's answer is lost to him, as he distractedly traces a curled index finger inside her scooped neckline to brush one peaked nipple.   
  
Squirming a bit in response, both to his touch and to the press of his growing hardness, Lenah teases, "What if I have a roommate?"  
  
With a wicked shrug of the eyebrows, Bronn retorts easily, "If she's pretty, she can stay."  _Gods, let it be that red-head over there,_ he wishes in secret, masking his roving eye by burying his nose in Lenah's bosom.  In the next moment, his exploring lips are halted by a warning finger, and he looks up into the cautionary countenance of a woman with a point to make.   
  
Smiling sweetly below eyes not touched by mirth, Lenah begins, "There is little and less I would deny you in the bedchamber."  
  
_As it should be,_ Bronn thinks in masculine approval.  
  
"But that is one," she continues conversationally, watching Bronn's features twist in annoyance.  She shakes her raven-haired head, as if almost sorry to impart the implacable news.  "I'm an only child, Bronn.  I don't share my toys."  
  
The sellsword snorts and looks away, clearly piqued.  After a pause, Lenah muses coyly, "Now if you want to bring that dashing Ser Lion with you, I won't mind."  She toys with the dark flips of hair at the nape of his neck, distracting him from his anger.  "I'd like to see what he can manage with only five fingers."  
  
Pursing his lips, Bronn briefly considers the scenario.  It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd experienced three in a bed, though he prefers the decadence of two women with himself.  Still, trading one woman between two men often spurs heightened performance, as well as gamesmanship.  He tries to picture it, but in the end the vision of the Kingslayer laying even one hand on Lenah is more rage-inducing than erotic.  
  
His eyes flicker back to Lenah's.  "I take your meaning," he admits grudgingly, and the two gradually relax into each other's gaze.  
  
"Now," -- Bronn raises his voice -- " **back to work, wench**!"  At the same time, he dumps her off his lap, chuckling and landing his own swat on her bottom.  Lenah leaves him with a wink over her dipped shoulder, and an unspoken promise in her swaying hips.   
  
*************************  
  
"Bugger!"  
  
A muffled thump and a growled curse pierce the dim quiet of the now empty great hall.  Treading lightly on his newly throbbing toe, Bronn weaves his way between the tables, stumbling a bit against the doorframe that leads to the kitchen quarters.  His too-bright eyes search the hallway as he strives to pull his wits together and recall the room he wants.  Up ahead, he notes candlelight and clatter coming from the bakery.  Twisting his way around the room's portal to lean casually yet carefully on the wall, he finds the flame-haired beauty he'd noticed earlier.  She is wrist deep in dough, wearing a ruffled apron covered in flour.  Her glancing gaze takes him in with calculating interest.   
  
"Can I help you find something, Ser Handsome? Looking for a midnight snack, mayhaps?"  
  
Bronn rolls his tongue against the inside of his mouth, a gesture of wry amusement.  "In a manner of speaking," he returns, flashing his rogue's grin.  "The new wench -- Lenah.  Which room is hers?"  
  
"Fourth door on the left."  The answer comes a tad too quickly, a bit too slyly.  
  
The sellsword eyes her, shaking his head in slow turns, still grinning.  His memory has finally sharpened.  "I think not.  She told me the _third_ door."  
  
The baker's girl pouts prettily, as she plunges her forearms into a barrel of water and wipes them clean.  "You've caught me in a lie, ser.  The fourth is my room."  Her downcast eyes watch him hopefully, while Bronn looks her over in frank consideration.  Emboldened, the lass sashays closer, suggesting, "Some men like the taste of ginger."  Willowy and graceful, the breadmaker's apprentice steps even nearer, until her head is almost level with his.  "Do you?"  
  
"Aye, I don't mind it," answers Bronn reflexively, struggling with himself.  Her russet tresses give off the scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls.  He notices the splash of faint freckles across her nose, and the even lighter patch that disappears between her breasts.  Temptation taunts him and his body begins to betray him.   
  
"I made a promise," he offers uncertainly.  
  
_Not wed yet,_ his cock reminds him.  
  
"She doesn't need to know...." is the teasing return, as slim fingers walk up his chest to find bare skin.  
  
_Don't be a fool_ , his brain chides.  _Lenah is ten steps away...soft...warm...drowsy..._  
  
Sighing, Bronn removes the porcelain hand from the V of his tunic.  "I made a promise," he hears himself say again, this time with more conviction.

 

 

*********************

 

 

Ten tipsy steps later, Bronn slips through the unlocked door of the third room on the left.  Exhaling softly in her sleep, Lenah rolls over, turning her back to him, losing half her coverlet as she twists.  The sellsword freezes, not wanting to rouse her -- yet.  As her breathing steadies in slumber, he caresses her hungrily with his eyes, all thoughts of flour-and-ginger long gone.  _Gods know, I love to wake her up with a good fuck_ , he reflects in lustful enthusiasm.  Quickly and quietly, he shucks his clothing. 

As he takes the narrow mattress alongside her, Lenah half-turns into his arms.  "I despaired of you, Just Bronn," she says sleepily, opening her mouth for his sensual greeting.

"I was dicing with the Lannister soldiers," he rumbles a few moments later.  As always, he is becoming intensely aroused by her nearness and her nakedness.

"And drinking."  Lenah smiles, touching his lips with her forefinger.  "You taste like ale."  She would take a second sampling, but Bronn has moved on, nuzzling her neck, savoring her breasts.

"Mmmmmmm," he murmurs lazily, tonguing a nipple.  "You taste like fine wine."

A bit bemused by the sellsword's uncharacteristic attempt at poetic language, Lenah stifles a laugh, asking the first thing that comes to her mind.  "Were you winning?"

Her question momentarily diverts him from his concentrated tactile study of her curves.  "Aye.  My purse is a bit heavier tonight."  In truth, he'd fleeced the lion swords.

Slipping her hand lower, Lenah cups his jewels, weighing them like a moneylender.  "I can always appreciate a man with a big purse," she teases in a throaty voice. 

Bronn ends her saucy banter with a probing kiss, and soon they become a cramped jumble of arms and legs on the sleeping pallet intended for one.  In the melee, the fortunately already guttered candlestick is knocked to the floor by a stray elbow, almost followed by the teetering bedside table itself.  Laughing, Lenah wriggles to her knees and pushes the sellsword onto his back.

"Best let me."

Bronn emits a happy grunt that deepens to a guttural groan with Lenah's continued attention to his cock.  Her fingers fondle him, at first with feather touches -- both hands gently encircling his shaft in opposite directions, mimicking the touch of two women after all.  After a time, she takes a firmer, one-handed grip, massaging him with lazy flicks of the wrist, thumbing the taut skin below his tip.  The sight and sensation of being encased in her delicate fist leaves him swollen with male pride.  His eyes close, as half formed thoughts drift blissfully across his mind.  _.......small hands...make me feel so big...._

He doesn't open his eyes again until Lenah ceases her ministrations to shift her position.  When she lifts one leg to throw it over his thighs, Bronn instead pulls her close by the shoulder, whispering, "Turn around."

Raising an eyebrow unseen in the semi-darkeness, Lenah keeps her voice low as well.  "As you wish, milord," she says in mock subservience.  Her plump breasts press against him as she leans down to taste his lips one more time.  Then, twisting, she straddles him backwards, affording him one of the finest views in all Westeros.  Grunting, he spans her hips with his large hands, as she guides his rigid member into her warm channel.  With a slow, rolling rhythm, Lenah slides along his length, dipping her pelvis to pleasure herself to the utmost against his hardness.  Bronn clutches her asscheeks, liking the feel of her round muscles working to ride him.  The sight is intoxicating beyond anything from cask or barrel.  Despite the coolness of the room, their bodies are soon moist with the heat of passion.  Instinctively, Bronn begins to encourage the tempo, adding the push-pull of his palms to Lenah's efforts.  Suddenly, he pulls her back hard and sits up, groaning loudly, engulfing her from behind in his embrace.  Head thrown back, throat's apple stretched, he exhales on a moan at the sweet relief of loosing his seed.  Reaching up and grabbing him by the hair, Lenah finds his earlobe with her teeth, adding the sharp bite of pain to his pleasure, sending his voice from his lungs.  As his senses slip into languorousness, Bronn feels his woman begin to tremble in his arms.  Over and over, she breathes his name, rocking slightly with him still inside her, until her pulses overtake her in short, sharp gasps. 

Ten steps away down the hallway, their final cries of ecstasy arrive muffled amongst the bakers racks and kneading blocks -- the place where a scorned woman plots her revenge.   

 

 

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will just say that this chapter was written long before the famous "bad pussy" line and the earbite that went with it. How I wish I had been asked to write that scene.


	23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The ascent to the tower is a long one, the narrow passageway lit by torches and floor sconces even at midday.  Ovals of leaded glass at each turning do little more than cast colourful prisms to mark the way up.  The stone walls weep with cold condensation, as though mourning the secrets they have seen.  Converging from opposite directions, two men meet at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
"You?!" queries the halfman, startled.  "My sweet sister sent for you?"  He turns the corner to begin the climb to the Queen's solar, resenting every step.   
  
"Aye.  And you."  It is not a question that drops from the sellsword's lips.  Bronn is uneasy at the summons, knowing he has not been discreet where Lenah is concerned.  Seeing the dwarf invited to the same audience only heightens his foreboding.  Underneath his cloak, he pulls his shirttails from his waistband, concealing the knife sheathed at his back, then vaults two steps to catch up with his friend.   
  
Bronn sucks on his teeth in silence.  _What can the Bitch Queen want with me?  Does she know I hired out to House Greystark?_ Finally he cautions aloud, "I have a bad feeling about this..."  
  
"As do I," agrees Tyrion as they round the first landing in unison and start up another flight.  His short legs are already aching.  They reach the second landing in mute reflection, before he speaks again.  
  
"On a happier note," the dwarf observes pragmatically, "you and Lenah should be able to slip away tomorrow.  All eyes in the city will be on the royal wedding."  If he weren't starting to run out of breath, he might have been able to inject more of the bite of sarcasm into the last two words.  
  
Bronn nods, smug in his belief that he has covered all the angles.  "I have a horse already stabled at Chataya's."  _A favor done is a favor won_ , he recalls the old saying.  After all the coin he'd spent at her establishment, the mistress of whores was only too happy to provide a debarkation point off the beaten path.    
  
Tyrion stops mid-step to stare at his unwitting companion.  "Bronn....Bronn...," he laments, shaking his head.  
  
"What?" the sellsword retorts defensively.  
  
"I might caution you against introducing the woman of your heart to the ladies of your loins," Tyrion points out succinctly, with a wry pinch to his features.  Since being wed, he has learned a thing or two about the feminine capacity for jealousy.   
  
Nonplussed, Bronn frowns in thought, as the two leave the third landing behind.  _Women!  Damnable mysteries, every one!_ He shrugs his eyebrows impatiently.  _Good thing they have cunts.  
  
_ Upon their arrival at the scrolled portal to Cersei's rooms, they are met by the unwelcome and unwelcoming figure of Meryn Trant.  "Surrender your weapons," he demands with a superior sneer aimed primarily at Bronn.  
  
"What...do I frighten you?" the sellsword tosses back, grinning a challenge.  
  
"Queen's orders," the Kingsguard returns primly, covering his sword hilt and blocking the door.  He is otherwise unarmoured, yet he still wears the cloak of his office.  
  
Snorting derisively, Bronn makes a great show of withdrawing his longsword and propping it against the wall, knowing he has another blade in reserve.  
  
Trant next turns expectantly to Tyrion, only to find himself skewered by the halfman's only weapon, his sharp wit.  
  
"I'm a DWARF.  Do I _look_ like I have a sword down my pantleg?"  Tyrion wiggles his brow impishly.  "That's just my cock."  
  
Twisting awkwardly away with a haughty "harrumph", Ser Meryn steps aside to allow entrance, following both men over the threshold.  
  
Queen Cersei stands on the far side of the room, behind a brocade couch.  Her rich red gown shimmers, adorned with the embroidered likeness of a crouching lioness.  The sunlight from above creates a halo around her golden-haired head, even though the triumphant twist of her lovely features is anything but holy.  She wastes no time with pleasantries.  
  
"I have a wench to present,"  she purrs, motioning to her Kingsguard.  She watches her guests carefully, as Bronn and Tyrion both strive to mask their trepidation.  Stomping to a side door, Ser Meryn opens it and drags out Lenah, bound at the wrists and balking.  Casually, he backhands her, leaving a mark.  Bronn grits his teeth, while seeming to casually clasp his hands behind his back.  
  
Like a cat toying with her prey, Cersei looks from one to the other, tilting her head in cruel amusement.  "This one is whore to one of you, if not both," she suggests archly into a silence so complete the only sound is Lenah's rapid breathing.   
  
The lioness runs an elegant finger along the studded cushionback in front of her, continuing with conversational innuendo.  " _So_ conveniently placed in the kitchens by my little brother."  She pierces Tyrion with a look of malice.  "Did you know your pet sellsword was visiting her bed, too?"  
  
She thinks this is Shae, Tyrion tells himself with a sinking heart.  "This woman means nothing to me," he declares, dismissing Lenah but not daring to look at her.  
  
Shrugging nonchalantly, Bronn interjects, "Naught more than a kitchen tart to me."  _They know who she is_ , he despairs inwardly, scarce daring to breathe.  He too cannot risk a glance at Lenah, but he flexes his fingers underneath his cloak.   
  
"No?  No one claims her?" Cersei wonders in feigned dismay.  Her voice becomes ice.  "Then no one will mind if I give her to Ser Meryn."  A beat passes.  "Do what you will, Trant."  
  
Moving with alacrity, the Kingsguard tries to lead Lenah back through the door from whence he brought her.  
  
"No, imbecile," the Queen snaps.  "Before our audience."  Her hands are spread, a wicked smile curls her mouth.  "I'm sure we could all use a little entertainment."  
  
Tyrion feels sick.  Narrowing his eyes, Bronn bends at the knees.  Ser Meryn jerks his prize to the center of the room by the rope that ties her hands in front of her.  
  
Planting her feet, Lenah stares straight into the knight's dullard eyes.  "Doubt I'll even feel you," she spits out venomously, knowing her defiance is sure to cost her more pain.  Ser Meryn strikes her again, then spins her around and rips her simple cotton dress down the back.  Roughly, he pushes her over the couch whilst fumbling with his laces.  
  
In the next instant, Bronn flies into action.  As one continuous blur of movement, he twists his body between the Kingsguard and Lenah.  His waistband blade flashes.  Ser Meryn howls, grabbing wildly for his center.  Bronn unsheathes the screaming knight's sword and raises it with his left hand.  With his right, he cuts Lenah's bonds.  Meanwhile, Ser Meryn is still clutching his groin, moaning as the red stain spreads across the handful of white cloak he tries to use to stem the flow.  
  
The Queen seems regally unruffled.  "Pick that up and leave," she commands in distaste, flicking her gaze at the limp length of flesh on the floor.  Ser Meryn snatches up his lost manhood and staggers to the door, blood dripping from between his fingers.  A wide-eyed Tyrion makes way for his departure.   
  
Still poised for a fight, Bronn swivels from side to side, watching the Queen warily.  
  
"Relax, Ser Bronn," murmurs Cersei, applauding prettily.  "I don't care who you fuck."  She lifts her chin towards Tyrion, and her tone takes on a threat.  "My darling little brother, on the other hand..."  
  
Never taking his eyes from Cersei, Bronn drops the longsword and unclasps his overgarment, tossing it to Lenah.  Gratefully, she covers herself.  
  
"I suggest you leave the city," the Queen then advises him offhandedly, beginning to sound bored.  "Once Ser Meryn has seen the Maester and been bound, he _is_ likely to seek revenge."   
  
_She's not wrong there_ , Bronn allows to himself  After a pause to consider Cersei's veracity, he pulls Lenah under his arm.  In a final spark of insouciance, he wipes his blade on the plush armrest of the couch.  Then he and Tyrion share a long, silent look before the sellsword hurries out the door with his lady.  
  
Cersei curves her lips in gloating delight, almost pleased the hunt goes on.  "Next time, you will not be so fortunate, Little Man," she promises, rounding the end of the furniture to tower over her brother.  "I **will** find your whore, have no doubt."  
  
   



	24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In keeping with the book aesthetics, the premier brothel in Kings Landing is not owned by Littlefinger, but by a woman from the Summer Isles.

"Bronn!"  
  
"Ser Bronn the Everlasting!"  
  
"A good man is hard to find!"  
  
"A hard man is good to find..."  
  
The feminine tide of greeting insinuates softly from all sides of the room.  Sly smiles and seductive eyes follow them across the richly appointed parlor.  _Or rather, follow Bronn._ A wave of knowing washes over Lenah's face and she steels herself against the certain knowledge that Bronn has spent time between the thighs of likely every woman here.  Rather than intimidate her, she allows the idea to excite her.  
  
She has calmed considerably in the hour it took them to weave their way down from the Red Keep to the Street of Silk, with Bronn glaring down anyone who gave them a second look.  He had brushed aside her queries as to their destination and hustled her through the door of the stone-turreted building before she could be sure.  Now they trail a young eunuch down a passageway lit with red glass lanterns.  By the time they are shown solace in one of the brothel's private rooms, a wry tickle of amusement is playing about Lenah's mouth.   
  
"You're a popular fellow," she remarks, arching an eyebrow.  "Ser Bronn the Everlasting?"  
  
From where he is examining some of the more esoteric props laid out on a table, Bronn gives an immodest toss of the head and a grin.  "The nickname has been mine since I first came to Kings Landing."  
  
"Apt," Lenah allows, knowing the moniker to be rooted in truth.  Catching her eye, the sellsword picks up a supple, short-handled paddle and slaps it smartly into his opposite palm.  Lenah tilts her chin, lips pursed, while Bronn turns to make a selection from amongst the various stoppered bottles of intimate oils.  _A man with a seeming plan,_ she realizes, growing warm.  Her titillating train of thought is interrupted by a honeyed voice dipped in the exotic accents of the Summer Isles.  
  
"Most men come here _looking_ for a woman.  It is rare for one to bring his own."  
  
Scents of sandalwood and myrrh sweep into the room, heralding the tall, elegant figure in variegated silks who greets them.  "I am Chataya."  The statuesque woman looks to Lenah inquisitively.  
  
Nodding a return greeting, Bronn moves in behind Lenah, hands on her shoulders.  "This is Lenah, Lady Greystark the Younger."  
  
Ebony eyes spark with faint merriment.  "So....this is the one who has tamed our lusty sellsword."  
  
Lenah feels Bronn's fingers tighten imperceptibly against her collarbone.  She is acutely aware that every woman in the establishment, including its mistress, has likely claimed more pillowtime with Bronn than she has.  _**Not** yours,_ she thinks with sudden, certain defiance.  _Not any longer._  
  
"He was far from tame last night.  Or this morning," she murmurs sinfully, reaching behind her to pull Bronn into an intimate kiss.  When she breaks away, she challenges Chataya with a pointed gaze.  The brothelkeeper inclines her head ever-so-slightly, the corners of her mouth curling in feminine understanding.  
  
Oblivious to the interplay before him, Bronn announces brusquely, "We need a place to shelter until the streets clear."  He glances down at Lenah, still clutching his cloak and the remnants of her rent garment to her throat.  "And some clothes for the lady."  
  
"Of course."  Chataya smiles, coolly gracious but not distant.  "You have been a good friend to this house.  However, as you well know, clothing is not a high priority here.  Less is more, if you take my meaning."  
  
"Fine with me," grins Bronn, taking a seat on the canopied bed and kicking off his boots.   
  
Chataya waves an impatient hand in Lenah's direction.  "I must see what I have to work with."  
  
Resting her sight boldly upon Bronn, Lenah drops his cloak to her hips, allowing her ripped neckline to slip down as well, until she is barely covered.  He watches the unveiling with keen interest, leaning to the side a bit for a better view.  
  
The proprietress casts an appraising eye, ever the professional.  "You always did have exquisite taste, Ser Bronn," she remarks.  Her braid-coiffed head swivels on her regal neck, indicating the pillowhouse at large.  "If ever you are in need of coin, my lady, you could earn a handsome income here."  
  
Lenah suppresses a laugh.  "I will give that some thought," she replies with a teasing glance across her shoulder at Bronn.  
  
"No you won't," he retorts quickly, stretching forward to pull her onto his lap.  His vision lingers over her bosom, his eyes growing brazen.   
  
Chataya knows the signs well.  "The room is yours until evenfall," she promises in her sultry voice.  "I will find something for the lady."  A graceful palm gestures to the bedside decanter.  "Wine you have."  She lofts a knowing eyebrow against the smoky perfection of her skin.  "Shall I send along anything.....or anyone...else?"  
  
Smirking a bit at the question, Bronn busies himself exposing one of Lenah's breasts, while answering, "I think I have playthings enough to keep me happy."  Before the door is fully closed, he is bending his lips to her peaked nipple, murmuring, "Naught else to do in a brothel."  
  
With her fingers buried against his skull, Lenah whispers an invitiation in her lover's ear.  "Show me the things you've done to all these women."  _Make me your whore._  
  
Gentle hands around her waist guide Lenah to her feet.  The heavy cloak drops to the floor.  Slowly, Bronn lowers her ruined dress past her hips, as he remarks with wicked pragmatism, "That will take some time....."  


 

 

******************************

 

 

 

The sky above the tattered sigil flag is just beginning to lighten as the big horse plods slowly underneath it.  On its back rides a grey-cloaked man with a woman before him, dozing against his chest, encircled in the safety of his arms.  As the riders pass the dilapidated gatehouse, a figure rounds the stable toting a bale of hay.  Dumbstruck, Hobart stares at the new arrivals for a full minute, before dropping his burden and running to the veranda of the manor house.  Frantically, he pulls the rope of the hanging alarm bell, shattering the early morning stillness.

Startled to waking, Lenah finds herself back at Three Wolves with her lord father and lady mother pouring out the door in various stages of undress and agitation.  She rubs the sleep from her face and is rewarded with dull pain and tenderness, a reminder of the blows Ser Meryn dealt her. 

Bronn reins to a halt amidst renewed silence; then suddenly, the elder Lady Greystark gives a sob of relief and rushes over.

"Easy, girl," he warns, as he gently hooks his forearm around Lenah's waist to hold her, while she leans down to enfold her tearful mother.  Once he sees Lenah to the ground he dismounts as well, pausing when he is on his feet to finger something under his tunic.  The two women cling to one another, while Bronn waits with a smirk on his face for the old man to speak first.

Cinching his colourful robe more tightly around his girth, the haughty lord nods.  "You have my gratitude," he says, the words clearly coming at great cost.  His rheumy eyes take in Lenah's burgundy velvet travel cape and the gossamer green halter dress she wears beneath it.  "Though I see you return my daughter to me dressed like a Kings Landing whore," he cannot help but add, lips compressed in disapproval.

Bronn opens his mouth to respond, but Lenah interjects first.  "And what do you know of Kings Landing whores?" she queries sarcastically, as she comes over to stiffly embrace her father.  While she is stepping away but still close, the Lord of Three Wolves uses one thick finger to turn his daughter's chin.  In the yellow light of dawn, the bruises coming up along Lenah's jawline are unmistakeably accented.

The aging lord turns cold, suspicious eyes to the sellsword.  "Is this your work?"

Bronn's gaze narrows in hatred and he spits on the ground.  _If I kill him **before** the wedding, it won't be kinslaying_ , he muses behind an angry glare.

" **Never** think that!" Lenah commands her sire hotly.  "Bronn left the man who did this maimed, if not dying."  Her tone softens, as she moves to take her lover's arm.  "He has quite a talent for rescuing me."   

The sight of the two of them together only seems to irritate Lord Greystark further.  "I have no way to repay you.....Bronn," he declares curtly, the words polite but the meaning penurious.

The sellsword smiles insolently, ready to enjoy a moment he has long anticipated.  "That's _Ser_ Bronn now."  A pause.  "And Lord of Copper Keep."

Lord Greystark snorts in disbelief.  "Words are wind.  Your say-so doesn't make you anything."  He could not sound more dismissive.

"No, but this does."  Wearing a triumphant twist to his features, Bronn reaches into his breast pocket, then tosses something long and round at the old lord's feet.

With difficulty, Lord Greystark holds his gown together, whilst stooping to retrieve the leathern cylinder.  He opens it to withdraw the parchment within, the one marked with the Lion's Seal.  He breaks the wax and begins to read, his lips twitching in consternation as the truth dawns.  "Copper Mountain," he chokes out weakly, knowing the holding to be an important one in the realm. 

"Aye."  Blue eyes dancing, Bronn delivers the final blow.  "And I'll be takin' a sweet bride with me when I go to claim my castle."  He plants a lusty kiss on his intended, mainly to annoy her father.

The old man sighs in disgust, while his ladywife gasps.  "Is this your true choice, Lenah?" he asks formally, though the answer is clear in front of him.  "I urge you to reconsider.  Your life is here."

Lenah has known her father's austerity for her entire existence, yet she is still astounded by his lack of empathy.  "Would you have me grow old and cold in the shadow of the past?" she wonders with a perplexed frown.  "I choose the life ahead."

Lord Greystark shrugs defeatedly, making a motion with his hands as though pushing them both from his life.  In contrast, Lenah's mother clasps her hands together in glee, proclaiming excitedly, "Seven heavens, there is so much to plan!"  Her face is alight with the ideas in her head.

Lenah winces and looks up at Bronn.  She knows her flighty female parent's tendencies only too well.  The sellsword reads her meaning and shares her sentiments.  Stepping one foot forward assertively, he warns, "Don't go gettin' carried away.  We want something small.  And soon," he adds, eager to be away from his goodfather-to-be.

The elder Lady Greystark stares at him, crestfallen, but Bronn presses his advantage.  "And there'll be none of that highborn bedding nonsense, either," he declares firmly.  "I can perform my husbandly duties just fine, without the encouragement of a bunch o' lords and ladies."  From her spot tucked against his side, Lenah gives a small exhalation of amusement.  _Might just skip the feast and get straight to my duty,_ he contemplates happily, as his hand slides down from the small of Lenah's back to cup a curved cheek. 

Suddenly the weariness after an overnight ride and the tension-filled day that preceded it hit Bronn like a warhammer, and all he can think of is a long nap.  Searching out the groomsman with his glance, he directs with lordly authority, "You -- tend to the horse."  Then, folding Lenah's hand more closely under his arm, he and his lady stride away in the direction of the cottage.

 

 

 

  



	25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is something I know at least one person has been waiting for. And I think an important moment for the two lovers.  
> The larger second half is stolen straight from the show and the books. Once I realized that this scene would fit here with only minor dialogue changes, I had to include it. It was no trouble at all to watch multiple times for nuance, what is perhaps my favorite scene of the series so far. All credit to GRRM and the GoT script writers. The final line is the same one that closes the chapter in A Storm of Swords.

The city is in turmoil.  The streets are teeming with people in numbers many times the resident population -- some lamenting, some rejoicing, all looking over their shoulders.  Lord Tywin has closed the gates and sealed the harbor.  Kingsguard and Goldcloaks and any other soldier who bears a lion shield prowl every quarter of Kings Landing, searching dwellings and barns.  The Master of Coin is imprisoned; the Queen is mad with grief.  The King is dead, poisoned at his own wedding feast.  
  
High above the castle walls, a melancholy man gazes out across the capital from the top story of the White Sword Tower.  A day has passed, and he is more distraught than ever over the death of the boy king.  Finally, he has sent his squire to scour the city and send him the one person he can trust.  A sharp rap on the door draws his eyes from the window.  
  
"Come."  
  
Brienne enters the familiar quarters quickly, her face pinched in worry.  "Is it safe for me to be here in daylight?"  She hovers near the door, uncertain.  
  
Jaime waves his golden hand, brushing aside her concern.  "I am the Kingsguard Commander.  I have every right and reason to summon one of the Keep's men-at-arms.  Or women," he adds with a faint smile.  Merely seeing her lifts his heart.  
  
"Squires can be made to talk," Brienne frets stubbornly.  So much suspicion, everywhere.  The city reeks of it.  
  
"The Queen has other things on her mind right now."  Jaime's voice sounds like that of a haunted man.  The vision of Joffrey's staring, purple-veined mask of death has not left his mind, either.  
  
"Of course."  Brienne dips her head deferentially.  "He was her son."  
  
Jaime turns his back, perhaps in shame.  "He was my son, too," he says softly, steeling his jaw for the rejection he expects after his admission.  Instead, he feels his warrior woman come up and embrace him from behind, laying her cheek against his shoulder.  Hugging her strong arms closer to him, Jaime casts his eyes to the ceiling, a look of anguish on his face.  
  
"Maybe the boy would have turned out to be less of a monster if he had had a normal family."  He hangs his head, almost whispering.  "A proper father."  
  
Behind him, Brienne's features radiate the sadness she feels, knowing there is little she can say.  Kind words have never been her gift.  She tries to afford him the comfort of her touch, and after long moments, his spine seems to relax.  Only then does Brienne speak.  
  
"My uncle kept orchards on Tarth," she begins obliquely, calmly.  "Vast orchards -- apples and pears and plums.  That's where I went to sword train."  She can sense the man in her embrace listening.  "One thing I noted over the years -- no matter how well nurtured, some trees always grew up blighted."  
  
Jaime half-turns his head.  "A bad seed, you mean."  
  
"If you will."  
  
"It was my seed that made him," the boy's secret sire points out succinctly.  
  
"He was equal parts both of you," Brienne counters evenly.  
  
Swiveling to face her, Jaime suggests, "A bad pairing, then."  His unfailingly honest lover holds her tongue, yet the blue saucers of her eyes answer for her.  
  
Jaime inhales quickly, then lets out his air along with his tension.  "I won't argue you that," he allows in weary defeat, running a hand over his haggard countenance.  
  
Taking him gently by the forearm, Brienne leads him to his mattress.  "Come, Kingslayer.  You need to rest."  As though caring for a child, she helps him with his boots, his cloak, his tunic, his under shirt -- urging him beneath the covers in just his breeches.  He clasps her arm as she pulls the blanket over him.  
  
"Stay?"  His eyes beseech her.  
  
Laying a tender hand alongside his scarred cheek, Brienne nods gravely.  With methodical care, she sheds her outer layers, speaking no more words.  Then she joins him on the bed, cradling his head against her breast, stroking away the grief and the horror and the regret, until she feels the wetness of his tears warm her skin.  
  
  
************************   
  
  
From his dank cell in the dungeon of the Red Keep, Lord Tyrion of House Lannister is cocooned from the outside chaos.  Two tedious weeks pass, during which he becomes increasingly aware of the forces arrayed against him.  One by one, his allies are being threatened and kept from him.  His squire he releases himself, ordering the lad out of Kings Landing, out of harm's way.  One other he sends for but never sees.  Then comes the day of his judgement and the final betrayal.  _My lion of Lannister._ The words that had once stirred his loins and left him as proud as the king of beasts, used to mock him and destroy him, sealing his fate.  It had felt glorious to vent his rage at them all, to wrest control from his father in one nihilistic roll of the dice and demand a trial by combat.  But this morning had come another cruel blow, delivered by a golden hand without it ever being raised to strike him.  His wild hopes of naming his brother as champion were dashed -- dashed as surely as a rudderless ship against the base of Casterly Rock.  Now he hoists his sails on one last chance, as he turns his face to the high window above him, his only source of sight and sound from the hallway.  
  
Slow footsteps reach Tyrion's ears, coming closer, stopping outside his wretched four walls.  He hears the clank of the lock turning, watches the striped shadow from the barred porthole on the dungeon door swallowed as the hinges swing wide, spilling light across the floor.  And over the threshold, a visitor.  
  
"My lord."  For the first and only time ever, Bronn uses the title of respect, bowing his head and sweeping an arm graciously to the side.  
  
"You have new clothes," Tyrion observes carefully, taking in the sellsword's finely tailored brocades and silks, in shades of tan and deep blue.  He looks a new man, from the top of his freshly barbered head to the tips of his supple footwear.  
  
"You like 'em.....eh?"  The lately minted Lord of Copper Keep spreads out his richly-lined cloak with one hand, admiring the finery in his own right.  Hooking a thumb into his belt, he continues expansively, "Gloves are doeskin."  He pauses to finger the accessories hanging at his waist, a faint, fond smirk on his face.  "Softer than virgin's thighs."  
  
The dwarf frowns churlishly.  "I sent for you days ago."  
  
Bronn rolls his shoulders, his manner careless, his answer breezy.  
  
"I've been a bit busy."  
  
"Doing what?" Tyrion challenges impatiently.   
  
Breaking eye contact, the taller man strides across the cell with a shake of his head.  "My lonesome bachelor days are over."  Turning back to the halfman, he leans one shoulder against a support beam, arms crossed contentedly.  "I've been planning my wedding."  
  
Wearily, Tyrion cuts to the heart of the matter, certain there is a price involved.  "So why did you come here?"  _If not for gold_ , he implies unerringly, unspoken.  
  
Some moments of silence pass, as Bronn moves to the simple cot abutting the wall, taking care to brush off the burlap mattress before planting his fine new boots wide and sitting.  He seems to be choosing his words as carefully as his seat.   
  
"You once said.....if anyone ever tried to buy me out from under you, you'd double their price."  The sellsword's eyes engage his former employer's with the honesty of their long days together.  Fiddling with his shiny signet ring, Bronn shrugs his elastic features.  "Funny thing is.... _you_ bought me out from under you."  
  
Tyrion sighs, sarcasm written all over his features.  "Is it two wives you want....or two castles?"  
  
"One of each will do," interjects Bronn in all seriousness.  "But" -- he wags his finger for emphasis -- "if you want me to kill The Mountain for you, it better be a damn big castle."  
  
Nonplussed, seeing where this is going, the dwarf hitches his hands on his hips.  "I'm a bit short on castles at the moment, but I _can_ offer you gold and gratitude."  
  
Bronn extends his arm empty, as empty as he finds the other man's offer.  "I have gold.  **And** the girl."  He leans back complacently.  "What can I buy with gratitude?"  
  
Tyrion steps forward, piercing Bronn with his gaze.  "You might be surprised.  A Lannister always pays his debts?" he reminds his former point man.  "My wife is heir to Winterfell."  The sellsword tips his chin up, willing to listen.  "If I emerge from this with my head still on my shoulders, I may one day rule the North in her name."  Now Bronn's eyes slide away, as he recognizes a folly within a dream.  "I could carve you out a _big_ piece of it," the halfman finishes, coating his words in rich tones of temptation.   
  
"If...and may...and could."  An eyebrow and a palm edge part the air, carving out Bronn's own slice of dubiousness.  "It's bloody cold up north.  Hell, it's bloody cold on Copper Mountain."  He exhales, a small smile tickling his lips.  "But Lenah is soft and warm and willing."  Sitting forward, he looks at Tyrion earnestly.  "I've lived an exciting life.  Now I'm ready to grow old in my own keep, drinking my own wine, watching my sons grovel over my fortune."  
  
With his face pinched in exasperation and annoyance, Tyrion is becoming more than a little worried.  
  
"Listen."  Bronn appeals to him pragmatically.  "If I gave you the same choice, between fucking Shae for the rest of your life or fighting The Mountain, you'd have your britches down and your cock up before I could blink."   
  
The dwarf spares his erstwhile bodyguard a doleful look.  "Not the best analogy," he points out dryly.  "Let us hope yours doesn't betray you like mine did me."  
  
"Anything's possible," the sellsword allows.  "But I'd rather take my chances with Lenah than with Gregor Clegane."  
  
"Does he frighten you so much?" taunts Tyrion, beginning in the back of his mind to grow truly desperate.  
  
Bronn counters quickly, almost talking over him.  "I'd be a bloody fool if he didn't frighten me.  He's freakish big and freakish strong.  And quicker than you'd expect from a man of that size," he adds, brow knit in honest assessment.  
  
Tyrion can scarce believe his ears.  His dwindling prospects for preservation sound about to be snuffed out.   
  
After a pause, Bronn shakes his head, palms up, allowing for the unknown.  "Maybe I could take him.  Dance around until he's so tired of hackin' at me, he drops his sword.  Get him off his feet somehow."  He completes the scenario the same way he's played it out in his mind a hundred times.  "But one misstep" -- a snap of the fingers -- "and I'm dead."  Then the inescapable reality.  "I have something to live for now.  Why should I risk it?" he asks, his voice soft.  
  
"Because you're my friend," offers Tyrion simply.  
  
"Aye.  I'm your friend," the sellsword agrees readily, gently forcing his longtime companion to see the sad truth.  "And when have you ever risked your life for me?"  
  
Tyrion is stunned and shamed by the question and by the ultimate inequity it reveals in their relationship.  He looks to the straw-covered floor for answers and finds none, even as Bronn rises with a sense of finality.  
  
"I like you, pampered little shit that you are," the sellsword admits.  "I just like myself more."  
  
Tyrion cannot look at him.  "I understand."  
  
"I'm sorry it has to be this way."  There is genuine regret in the gruff words.  
  
Now the dwarf looks up.  "Why are you sorry?" he asks from someplace between impatience and resignation.  "Because you're an evil bastard with no conscience and no heart?"  
  
The evil bastard holds his tongue, allowing his friend this parting insult.  Then comes the epilogue to their many years of association, and Bronn cannot help but smile.  
  
"That's what I liked about you in the first place."  Tyrion extends his hand and looks away.  Bronn clasps it warmly, leaning in to prompt a happy note on which to part.  
  
"We had some good days together."  
  
"Yesss!" Tyrion responds on a hearty sibilant, pumping their handclasp.  "We did."  Bronn returns the handshake, then tries to pull away.  But Tyrion holds on like the condemned man that he is, prolonging their contact, again dropping his gaze -- a man of words at a loss for a single one to sum up his feelings in this moment.  
  
Bronn fills the void with his strength, reaching out his free hand to pat Tyrion's forearm, reassuring the halfman of his own similar unspoken feelings.  Then, face grim, he strides to the short doorway and bangs on the door for the turnkey.  
  
"What will you do?" he asks sadly, curiously, as he turns to his friend one last time.  
  
Reclaiming some of his wry wit, Tyrion suggests," I suppose I'll have to kill The Mountain myself.  Won't that make for a jolly song?"  
  
As the barred barrier swings open, Bronn inclines his head.  "I hope to hear them sing it at my wedding," he states, his tone strong with respect.  Then he walks out of the door, out of the castle, and out of Tyrion's life.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original show scene can be viewed here:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEpxM0aIhg0


	26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, one that deserves to stand on its own.

Into the inky night sky, the hunter's moon rises slowly to hang over the Red Keep's godswood.  Far below the acre of elm and alder and cottonwood, the Blackwater Rush whispers along its banks, still quiet here at its mouth.  In the center of the tree garden stands a great carved oak, a silent sentinel to the Northern gods who long ago were abandoned by this city.  Not since a wolf daughter of Winterfell fled Kings Landing have these wooded paths welcomed a visitor.  Yet on this night, the pale face of the moon and the sad eyes of the heart tree witness two worshipers, strolling slowly in their solitude.  For to walk in the godswood at the full moon is to invoke the old gods, even unbeknownst.   
  
The pair meander in silence, until finally the still crisp air is stirred by a masculine voice.  
  
"Cersei has found a mission for me."  Jaime glances over at the imposing woman beside him.  "To get me out of her sight."  
  
Brienne turns to him, careful not to miss a step in her sudden dismay.  It should be no surprise that the Queen would find a way to part them, given her jealous suspicions.  Perhaps the surprise should be that she didn't find it sooner.  
  
Ducking his tall frame under a low-hanging limb, Jaime ends up ahead of her on the trail.  "Once this business with Tyrion is....finished, she wants me to find Sansa Stark."  
  
Brienne stops dead in her tracks, her dismay distilling into fear, her face closing in threatening resolve.  "I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn, to keep her daughters safe.  I won't let you deliver her to the Queen."  
  
Facing her through the light and shadows, Jaime studies Brienne's features for a sign of her true emotions.  "Would you slay me for the sake of your vow -- a vow to a dead woman?"  He knows it will not come to that; still, her answer fascinates him.  
  
"If need be,"  his warrior woman answers quietly, yet the anguish in her eyes at the mere thought gives him heart.   
  
Jaime shakes his head in wonderment.  "Your sense of honor is a thing of legends."  He has known many legendary knights in his day, and many so-called honourable ones -- but no none like this goddess from the Sapphire Isle.   
  
"Don't force me to make that choice."  Whether a warning or a plea, the words come out a whisper.  
  
Pulling her by the hand to his side, Jaime plants a reassuring kiss on Brienne's forehead.  "Don't worry.  _**IF** _ I find Lady Sansa, I have no intention of returning her to Kings Landing."  He feels his woman exhale in relief.  "I'll take her to safety."  
  
"Where?" wonders Brienne, ever the skeptic.  
  
"Someplace safe," replies Jaime in his vague and circular way, as they turn and continue the path, arms around waists.  Brienne rolls her eyes to the heavens, but for the moment is content with his lack of planning.  It is enough that he vouchsafes the Stark girl's life.  
  
Long moments pass with no sound other than the haunting call of an owl keeping watch in the heart tree up ahead.  Lanky limbs stride in unison, picking their way over exposed roots and around soft mud puddles.  Eventually the couple pause to share a waterskin, dropping to sit cross-legged in the red dragon's breath that covers the ground beneath the great tree.  
  
After a hearty draught, Jaime relays the flask along with a piece of news.  "Bronn was in the city today."  
  
Brienne looks up in interest, pausing with the spout halfway to her lips.  "You saw him?"  
  
Jaime nods, contemplatively.  "He won't fight for Tyrion."  
  
Swallowing slowly, Brienne watches him.  "Either."  
  
Meeting her gaze, Jaime arches an eyebrow.  "You think _I_ should do it?"  
  
"No," Brienne is forced to say.  Gently she takes his good hand, wanting to soften the sting of her words.  "You are as strong as you can be.  But you are not what you once were."  
  
"No," agrees Jaime.  "In many ways, I'm better.  You made me better, Brienne," he reveals softly, squeezing her fingers.  
  
Flustered, the lady warrior turns her head, busying herself with adjusting the water bag over her shoulder.  Releasing her hand, Jaime gives her a moment to collect herself, before sharing another tidbit from the day.  
  
"The sellsword had other tidings.  There is to be a wedding at Three Wolves....in a week."  
  
Brienne gives one of her rare smiles, radiant in the silvery beams of moonlight.  "I am happy for them."  Then a cloud crosses her face and she looks away so he will not see.  
  
After studying her averted countenance for some time, Jaime thinks he perceives the truth.   
  
"Tell me, my warrior.  Should I make an honest woman of you?" he queries in quietude.  
  
Brienne stares at him for a full five seconds, her eyes like saucers.  "You cannot!  You're Kingsguard!  They would have your head!" she blurts out, the vows of the White Cloaks uppermost in her mind.  
  
Jaime makes a wry grimace.  "They will have BOTH our heads if we are ever found out."  He takes her hand once more.  "We could never dwell together as man and wife, even if I could persuade Tommen to release me from the Guard.  Not while my sister lives."  The seeds of a monstrous idea are planted in that moment, yet Jaime forges ahead while Brienne is still too stunned to speak.  
  
"But I could easily persuade his Grace to give you a white cloak as well."  He tilts his chin, his tone shrewd.  "I can take as many swords with me on my search for Sansa as I wish."  
  
Brienne responds incongruously, seeing only the tactical side of his suggestion.  "A large company will only attract attention."  
  
Jaime shakes his head at his lovable, literal-minded wench.  "I was thinking of taking just one sword.  One who has an oath to keep."  
  
Brienne nods warily.  "And the path leads us where?"  
  
Jaime smiles.  "Via Rosby, seven days hence."  
  
Brienne's face relaxes as she finally sees his strategy.  Perhaps he is not so plan-bereft after all.  She  does not resist when he draws her into his arms.  
  
"The septon can speak the words over two couples as well as one," he whispers, tracing his fingers along Brienne's jawline.  
  
"Are you being true, Jaime?" she asks solemnly, her voice breaking.  She has had her fill of false marriage proposals.  
  
Jaime's eyes briefly slide upwards to the mighty oak canopy above them.  "The Northmen say no one can tell a lie before the heart tree.  My heart is yours, Brienne of Tarth.  Will you give me yours in return?"  
  
He finds his answer in the kiss of the woman he loves, as a thousand eyes and one look on in approval.  
  
  
  



	27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"So what do you think?  Is this septon to be trusted?"  Jaime braces his elbows on the wooden table behind him, squinting into the noonday sun that rides above Three Wolves.  "We could always kill him after."  This last is couched as a jest, but both he and his companion know he is capable of it.  
  
Topping off his tankard from the keg supposedly reserved for the wedding banquet, Bronn extends one long leg down the bench he straddles at the next table.  The two bridegrooms have taken it upon themselves to sample the ale in advance of the festivities, while lounging amongst the settings for the morrow.  The sellsword gives an approving nod to the contents of his mug before replying.  
  
"Killin' him would be preferable," he muses, not joking at all.  He shrugs.  "With the promise of your gold and the threat of my sword, he should keep his mouth shut."  He takes a careless swallow.  "I hope so, for your sake.  It matters not to us, once he records the names."  
  
Leaning forward, the Kingslayer taps more of the amber liquid for himself, while his drinking partner looks on with a question in his eyes.  
  
"So.....what IS the penalty for Kingsguard who break their vow?" Bronn wonders conversationally.  _As if I don't know._    
  
"Beheading," answers Jaime cheerfully, quaffing some ale to toast the idea.  
  
"Then why marry her?"  queries Bronn in curiosity.  "Why not just keep fucking her on the side?"  
  
Balancing his pewter on one leather clad thigh, Jaime contemplates the manner of his response.  "Brienne is a woman of honor -- a trait you wouldn't know about."  He looks up in time to see Bronn's deadpan stare of annoyance.  Thus rewarded, he continues.  "She wouldn't be happy as a mere silkwife till the end of her days.  It would eat away at her."  Unnoticed, Bronn stifles a snort.  After a pause,  Jaime gestures with his drinking hand, nearly spilling some of the finest brew Rosby has to offer.  "I could pose you the same question -- why marry her?"  
  
"You're highborn.  You wouldn't understand."  Bronn's prompt reply is accompanied by a resistant shake of the head.  
  
"Try me," the  Lannister shoots back.  
  
Bronn takes several moments to consider the other man before nodding evenly.  "I came from nothing -- less than nothing," he explains somewhat defiantly.  "Now I have a chance to build a legacy -- sons who carry on my name, a line that remembers my deeds."  _Maybe not so different after all_ , he realizes when he puts it into words.  
  
The Kingslayer observes cynically, "So this marriage for you is nothing more than another step up the ladder."  He is not surprised -- not until the sellsword speaks again.  
  
"The marriage -- yes.  The woman -- no."  Jaime raises an interested eyebrow.  "Her I'd keep if all we had ahead of us was a hard scrabble life dependent on the gold my sword could bring."  _But life in a castle will be a damn sight more comfortable,_ he anticipates contentedly.  
  
The two grow silent for a time.  Shifting positions, Bronn stretches out, one foot on Jaime's bench, the other on the ground, shoulders tipped against the table edge behind him.  With one wrist resting alongside his groin, the other supporting his neck, he even closes his eyes for a few minutes, counting the rooms in the keep he will soon occupy.  Seeing his companion apparently dozing, Jaime idly pulls out his dagger, using the time to hone his off hand flip-and-catch dexterity.  The sight of the blade reminds him of something.  
  
"I hear you were the one who gelded Meryn Trant," he says overloudly, intending to startle the sellsword back to wakefulness.  
  
"Yep."  Bronn opens his eyes quickly, unruffled, more alert than he had appeared.  
  
Grinning, Jaime acknowledges the act with dark humour.  "If Tyrion hadn't raised you up, I'd knight you myself for that."  
  
Reaching for his ale, Bronn gives a grim chuckle.  "I reckon the cockless fucker won't have any trouble keeping his vows now."  
  
"As it happens, Ser Meryn's wounds have taken a turn for the worse," Jaime shares, adopting a formal tone.  "He was forced to leave the Kingsguard.  My nephew has appointed another to take his place."  
  
"Your nephew," Bronn repeats, his face a mask, all but for the faint eyeroll.  
  
A steely stare and a knife tossed to land uncomfortably near his lap are the only response Bronn receives.  He purses his lips, giving a slight chin bob of appreciation for the other's points, both literal and figurative.  
  
As Bronn dips his nose into his now-tepid beverage, Jaime leans across to retrieve his blade, remarking casually, "I also hear the Kings Landing whores are growing positively plump in their idleness."  
  
Bronn glances up, not certain what he's playing at.  
  
Sheathing his short weapon, Jaime elaborates, a tease in his voice, "First they lose my brother's custom and now yours......"  He punctuates his sentence with the arch of an eyebrow.  
  
Bronn ignores that parry, instead changing the subject.  "I wonder where the little shit's gotten off to."  He challenges the Lannister with a long, steady look.   
  
There comes no confirmation, but also no denial.  Finally Jaime says quietly, "I believe he is someplace safe."  
  
Bronn nods.  "I'm glad he kept his head.  It's the best part of him."  _Though he'd argue it was his cock.  
  
_ Jaime accepts this in silence, ruminating over the past days.  Suddenly he looks up and eyes the sellsword a bit crossly.  "You wouldn't fight for him."  
  
"Neither would you," retorts Bronn, refusing any reproach.  
  
"You have two hands!" Jaime protests pointedly.  
  
"Aye," returns Bronn in a pragmatic tone.  "I also have a brain in my head."  _....and a cock between my legs, and a woman to come home to, and sons to father_ , he enumerates silently.  "The odds were too thin for me to risk it.  "  He wags a wise finger.  "Tell you what, though.  Once I had him on his back, I'd have finished it first and gloated after."  Yet he knows in his heart that without the extended reach of a spear, he was just as likely to have been finished himself.  
  
When Jaime says nothing, the sellsword observes, "Anyway, he's **your** brother and I didn't see you offering to martyr yourself."  
  
The elder son of House Lannister sighs.  "I did what I could for him.  The murders, however -- those weren't in the plan."   
  
Bronn watches his companion carefully.  "I would have helped, you know.  If you'd asked."  
  
"I know," Jaime says, in the end admitting his part after all.  "There was no time.  You were here."  
  
Sitting up with renewed energy, Bronn takes both their pewters and fills them to the brim.  "A toast then, to your brother," he proposes, proud to recall his friend.  
  
"To Tyrion!"  The taller Lannister offers his accolade most heartily.  "Wherever he is."  
  
Pausing for a brief moment to indicate his skepticism of the continued pretense, Bronn hoists his handle and raises his voice.  
  
"To Tyrion!  May his ale always be cold, his women hot, his bed soft, and his cock hard!"  
  
He brings the tankard to his lips for a healthy swig, then stops mid-swallow when he notices Jaime looking at him slightly askance, his mug nowhere near his mouth.  
  
"What?"  Bronn tilts his head and shrugs.  "It's an old toast amongst sellswords."  
  
Jaime can't help but smile.  "It fits my brother, I'll give you that."  He lifts his drink.  "To Tyrion."  
  
Rapping the tabletop with his pewter on the return, Jaime rises to his feet.  "Time for a piss," he announces brusquely, glancing around for the nearest tree.  As the Lannister wanders off in one direction, Bronn decides the suggestion has merit.  Soon, he too is making room for more ale.  
  
As the two stride back to the furniture row, Bronn inquires, "How far behind you is your lady?"  
  
Glancing reflexively at the sun's position in the sky, Jaime replies, "Two hours -- maybe three.  We left separately.  And she stopped to collect Podrick on the way," he volunteers as an afterthought.  
  
This is news to Bronn.  "Is the lad squiring for one of you now?"  
  
The Kingslayer shakes his head.  "He's traveling north with us for a ways.  He has kinfolk in the Westerlands."  An idea occurs.  "Unless perhaps you want to take him on at Copper Keep?"  
  
Wincing in regret, Bronn replies slowly, "I like the boy and all, but no."  _Not bloody likely,_ he thinks, knowing Lenah's appetites and Podrick's reputed prowess.  _There'll be just one champion of the bedchamber at Copper Keep._  
  
"And here they are."  
  
Looking up at the sound of Jaime's words, Bronn follows his gaze to see Brienne and Pod riding into the courtyard.  The erstwhile squire sits his horse a bit awkwardly, but the lady warrior is graceful and athletic, if a bit overdressed to his mind.  As the two come to a halt and dismount, Bronn tips his head to Podrick, then turns in greeting to Brienne.  
  
"A new cloak, I see," he comments with a sardonic smile.  "The colour suits you."  
  
After a brief embrace from her lion, Brienne casts suspicious eyes to the sellsword.  "Your meaning, ser?"  
  
Clearly enamored of his own cleverness, Bronn reasons smoothly, "Seems to me, if you want to continue the fantasy of your maidenhood, wearing white and joining the famed order of non-fuckers isn't bad cover."  
  
Brienne summons her most withering look.  "I really don't have time for your childish banter, Bronn," she says coolly.  "The stable?"  
  
Jutting his chin, he points her in the right direction.  "Behind the great house."  
  
With the new arrivals' backs receding across the commons, Bronn turns to Jaime.  The talk of cloaks has reminded him.  
  
"You bring a Lannister cape?"  
  
Jaime grunts in affirmation, stepping one foot onto a bench and stretching his quads.  "And you have one with your made-up sigil.  Tell me, did you get your bride a gift?"  
  
Bronn's eyes pinch in a brief moment of uncertainty.  "Did you?"  
  
Switching legs, Jaime looks over and replies flippantly, "Get _your_ bride a gift?  No.  I have a sword for Brienne."  
  
"Of course you do," Bronn agrees with a wink from behind his ale mug.  
  
Sighing testily, Jaime enunciates, "A Valyrian steel sword."  Then he repeats, as if speaking to a child, "Did you get Lenah something?"  
  
Blue orbs snapping, Bronn drawls, "I've got a sword for her, too."  
  
"You're going to make a terrible husband," Jaime declares, bemused.  Bronn looks at him, half in derision, half in curiosity.  "It's not only about the bedding, you know," Jaime insists.  "Women like a little romance once in awhile."  
  
A long stretch of silence ensues, indicating to Jaime that he might be getting the sellsword's attention.  "What's something she likes?" he prompts helpfully.  
  
The answer is swift and sure and smug.  "Fucking."  
  
"Well then, I guess you have it covered," returns Jaime sarcastically, losing interest in the conversation.  In one long gulp he finishes his ale, and turns away to seek out Brienne.  
  
Before he is out of earshot, Bronn calls out to him.  "A Valyrian blade's romantic."  Though spoken as a statement, his words carry the hint of a caustic question mark at the end,  
  
Swiveling halfway to meet the sellsword's gaze, Jaime assures him confidently, "This one is.  And it's Brienne we're talking about."  Then he is on his way, his step nimble with the knowledge of a lover's reunion.  
  
Handsome features drawn into a frown, Bronn leans against the banquet board.  Absent-mindedly he pats the keg, eliciting a faintly hollow thump.  Then he seems to come to a decision.  
  
Downing the last of his brew, he pulls his purse from his pocket, weighing the contents.  "Wonder how much coin it takes to keep a silversmith at his bench all night?" he mutters under his breath.  Then he runs a hand through his hair, dusts off his pantlegs, and strides purposefully towards the stable as well.  
  
  
  
  
  



	28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"You look lovely, my dear."  
  
 Lady Myllicent Greystark's voice flutters almost as much as her fussy fingers -- the latter brushing away specks of imaginary lint, straightening an already perfectly-hanging sleeve, fruitlessly attempting to smooth into place a fall of hair that refuses to be tamed.   
  
Lenah lifts a dubious eyebrow, then casts a critical eye at her reflection in the circular seeing-glass.  The dress is simple at first glance -- scoop-necked, close-fitting, in the steely blue of some stormy northern sea. The drama begins with the dagged sleeves, sweeping two-tone lengths of grey and white, and carries through to the back of the gown, a daring plunge held together by a latticework of broad ribbons.  
  
"But you need to do something with your hair," her mother decides fretfully.  She tries for the tenth time to corral Lenah's heavy waves high on her head, with no success.  
  
"Give it to me," says Lenah, holding out her hand and indicating the length of satin between Lady Greystark's fingers.  Pulling her locks to one side, she loosely ties the thick mass behind one ear, creating a cascade down the front of her shoulder.  "There."  The older woman nods her approval.  
  
"You will leave in the morning?"  Lady Myllicent asks then, a mother melancholy over seeing her daughter relocate so far away.   
  
"Perhaps midday," Lenah answers truthfully, archly anticipating a long night spent enjoying her bridegroom.  "But yes, we need to make the journey before winter is come."  She glances out the window to where the heavily laden wagon sits waiting.  Newly purchased in Rosby, with reinforced axles to negotiate the rocky trail to the mountain keep, it is heaped with all she owns, which is not much.  There is still ample room inside the canvas covered framework for two to sleep along the road when no inn is in sight.   
  
Lady Myllicent knits her brow, having found something new over which to worry.  "What will you do for servants?"  
  
Turning back to her mother, Lenah tips her head in speculation.  "We will see what we have when we get there.  Supposedly an old woman and her young grandson stayed behind as caretakers.  The castellan deserted when word came their lord was dead.  Beyond that, I do not know."  
  
The Mistress of Three Wolves speaks tentatively, her voice trailing off into nothingness.  "You could take Hobart to drive the wayn and....."  
  
Quickly, her daughter raises a palm to stave off the idea.  "Seven Hells, no!"  Lenah interjects sharply, putting an end to it.  She is rather looking forward to sharing new vistas and lazy days enroute to their new home  _And chill nights entwined under  the furs and the stars._  
  
"No," she says again, upon seeing Lady Myllicent's lingering look of uncertainty.  "You need him here.  Besides, Bronn would likely kill him out of annoyance before we were halfway there."  It amuses her, how wedding a dangerous man can bring such a casual threat so easily to her lips.   
  
From the longcase clock in the center of the house comes the chiming of the midday hour, sparing further discussion.  The two ladies of House Greystark exchange a poignant look.  Then, crossing the room in short steps, Lenah gives the elder woman a quick embrace, taking care not to catch her trailing sleeves.   
  
"Leave me now.  I need a few moments alone."  
  
Seeming a bit tearful, the mother of the bride departs, pausing at the door to deliver a dutiful admonishment.  "Don't tarry, dear."  
  
Her daughter smiles, rich in her happiness.  "He will wait."  
  
Left in quiet, Lenah pours herself a glass of Arbor gold, the same vintage as the two casks that will travel to the Vale with them.  Closing her eyes, she sips the honey-coloured liquid, pondering the turning of a page.  How glad she will be to leave behind this dreary existence in her parents' veil!  _A Vale for a veil_ , she puns for herself alone, smiling.  
  
Her lids open and she watches the way the wine coats the bowl as she swirls the goblet.  Is she trading one gilded cage for another?  Perhaps.  But this one will be gilt in copper, not tarnished pate.  _And will come with a man most interesting,_ she reminds herself, bringing the glass to her lips and swallowing slowly, savouring the complexities of the varietal as a metaphor for the man.  
  
A new thought arises, unbidden.  _Will I keep **his** interest?  _ Lenah frowns inwardly at that question.  Again, perhaps.  She sighs.  When his lady wife is heavy with child, his eye is like to go wandering.  _And his loins_ , she adds in bitter pragmatism.   
  
Shaking her head in annoyance at herself for this defeating train of thought, Lenah downs her wine and resolves to face the future, tucking away in her mind the knowledge that she has more than one way to please a man.  


 

 

********************

 

 

 

As the chimes die away, the various players gather in the great room before the magnificent pendulum timepiece, one of the few remaining treasures House Greystark owns.  The high couple of Three Wolves stands apart, Lady Myllicent with her arm tucked under that of her lord husband, a tatted handkerchief at the ready.  Preferring not to meet the eyes of either of the knights in the room, the wizened septon with the bald crown and the fringe of stringy hair busies himself studying the clockworks.  Ser Jaime, splendidly handsome in the red and gold of his house, leans against the wall feigning nonchalance, though he can scarce take his eyes off his bride.  Brienne of Tarth fidgets self-consciously, at a loss for something to do with her hands without a swordbelt to rest them on.  Her groom sees her need and stills her nerves, taking her palms in his, complimenting her gown.  The colours of House Tarth are made for her this day; the rose bringing out her complexion, the azure highlighting her eyes, the yellow sun centered over her breast a match for her straw-blond hair.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater cuts a dashing figure in his finery, right down to the repeating bow and arrow motif that festoons the wide sleeves of his sand-hued blouse and the span of his sea blue satin cloak.  He struts about the room unable to keep still, not nervous so much as eager.  _Eager to see this done,_ he thinks, as he idly experiments with interrupting the clock's swinging center with his forefinger.  The septon looks up with a disapproving frown, then thinks better of it when he encounters Bronn's challenging glare.  Nervously fingering the seven pointed star that hangs about his neck, the mouthpiece of the Faith moves over to chat quietly with the elder Greystarks.  Bronn watches him retreat with an air of good riddance.  _Got no use for septons.  Beyond the seal of law they give a marriage._

As the minutes tick by longer and longer, Brienne suddenly looks around, counting heads.  "Wait -- where's Podrick?" she queries worriedly.  "I haven't seen him all morning."

Running his hand admiringly up the mahogany housing of the timepiece, Bronn considers whether it could survive the transport to Copper Keep.  _Might like to help myself to a wedding gift on my way out._ Casually, he answers Brienne.  "I sent him into town on an errand."

"You sent him into town on an errand,"  Brienne repeats as if this were the very height of stupidity.  She gestures impatiently.  "The guests are gathering in the courtyard!"

_Aye, all fifty of them,_ Bronn scoffs internally, while continuing his inspection of the timekeeper.  And about forty-five more people than he has need for this day.  Friends of Lenah's parents, a few relatives from Lady Myllicent's side of the family -- they have come for the wedding feast after.  The vows will be taken in private, and as far as the attendees will know, only one couple will have been wed inside Three Wolves.

"We can't start without Pod," Brienne states firmly.  She has developed a reluctant affinity for the young man during their sparring sessions, and it was in fact her idea to bring him. 

Jaime gives a sly smile.  "We can't start without Lenah, either," he teases.  "Unless Bronn wants to marry this piece of furniture he's fallen in love with."

Eyes rolling to the heavens, Bronn turns back to his friends.  "Sounds like you're uncommon fond of the lad," he observes roguishly.  "You're even takin' him on your honeymoon, eh?"  He winks at Jaime.

The Lannister shifts uncomfortably, his fellow bridegroom having pointed out an unfortunate fact.  "Only as far as the Gods Eye," he mutters curtly.

A sudden commotion from the front hallway produces the missing squire, slightly breathless from his haste.  Hurrying wordless to Bronn's side, he surreptitiously slips  something into the sellsword's palm, something Bronn cradles there and regards carefully, then secretes in a hidden pocket of his flocked tunic.

Thus occupied, Bronn does not immediately notice when Lenah enters the room.  He sees first the flash of recognition on Podrick's face and the nod from Jaime directing his attention to something behind him.  In a retelling of the first time he laid eyes on her, Bronn turns slowly to find a welcome sight.  His reaction now is much the same as it was then -- a catch of the breath, a spark of desire -- but with something new added:  a wash of affection.

Lenah likewise hearkens back to their first meeting, such a seeming lifetime ago.  A scruffy sellsword with an insouciant smile came into her vision that day.  The smile remains, but today she sees a rugged knight, a proud lord, the man who holds her heart.  Caressing him with her eyes, she moves to his side.

With the intention of alerting the septon to begin, Bronn turns and opens his mouth, only to have his tongue and his attention arrested when his hand finds the small of Lenah's back and encounters bare skin.  Leaning closer so that the fall of his cloak conceals his actions, he slips his long fingers inside the gown's V, brushing lightly across the tops of her round swells and the cleft between.  _Likely not the first man to take his vows with half a hard-on_ , he reckons silently.  Into Lenah's ear he whispers, "You've just made me a **very** happy bridegroom..."  The smile the two share is far from chaste.

"The time is come."

Stepping to the center of the room, the man of the cloth motions the wedding supplicants into place before him -- Jaime and Brienne on his left, Bronn and Lenah on his right.  Lord and Lady Greystark stand as witness for their daughter, Podrick Payne attends the lion and his lady.

"Let the bridegrooms now cloak their brides, as a symbol of bringing them under the protection of their House" -- a side glance at Bronn -- "and their person," intones the septon.  He looks first to his left. 

With a flourish, Jaime one-handedly snaps his cloak from his shoulders, surely a move practiced aforehand.  In the easy way she has of fitting with his infirmity, Brienne reaches up to hold the clasp at her throat while her bridegroom encircles her in his colours, making the ceremony seamless and graceful.  They turn forward as one to await the next sequence. 

At a signal from the septon, Bronn turns to his lady.  But instead of unpinning his cloak, he first finds the secret inside seam at his waist, withdrawing something silver.  Smiling slightly, he fastens the chain around Lenah's neck, allowing his fingers to linger on her skin as he centers the pendant just below her collarbone.  It is a delicate rendering of the drawn bow of his knighthood, hanging with the arrow pointed fetchingly to the valley between her breasts.  In silence, Lenah touches the gift, making it her own, while her eyes sparkle with gratitude. 

Nodding once, Bronn unhurriedly releases the fabric that hangs from his back, claiming his bride with a sweep of cloth that threatens to drown her, whilst taking care to gently pull her hair free before buttoning the throat.

When they face back to the septon, the little man now has two linen straps draped over his left arm.  In deference to the mightier House, he turns his attention first to the Lannister.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity -- one heart, one flesh, one soul."  As the words leave his mouth, he performs the ancient handfasting, wrapping Jaime and Brienne's entwined fingers lightly with a length of cloth.  Shoulders brushing together in unconscious intimacy, the warrior of Tarth and the knight of Lannister see their lives joined. 

Slipping Lenah's diminutive fingers between his, Bronn raises their forearms.  From the corner of his eye, he sees the rise and fall of Lenah's bosom, as her breath quickens.  In truth, his own heart seems more lively in his chest.  Smiling beatifically, the servant of the Seven repeats the invocation and ritual over the sellsword and his lady, tying their clasped hands at the wrist, adding the warm press of his palms to meld them together. 

Encompassing both couples with his gaze, the septon now steps back.  "Look upon one another and say the words."  He spreads his arms, giving a nod, and four voices rise in unison, speaking the vows as old as the Faith, as new as the future. 

 

 

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."  
"I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,"  
"I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

 

THE END

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the natural end point for this tale. I thank everyone who has been reading! I have been overwhelmed by the faithful readers. Any positive comments are appreciated. Feedback is the only reward for fanfic writers.
> 
> If there is sufficient interest, the further adventures of the two couples are mapped out in my head, and the first 5-6 chapters done in rough draft. Crossing fingers and toes, that my personal life sorts itself back to the point where I have time and space to write again. 
> 
> Thank you one more time, you've all been the very best. Let me know if you want the sequel.


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